Wanting for Independence
by Sashile
Summary: NCIS agents and teams around the world fight against time to investigate a murder of one of their own, and in the process, discover a terrorist plot to attack Washington, DC on the 4th of July. Tiva, latest in my series.
1. Chapter 1

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 1**

_Standard disclaimer: Don't own any of the show. I think you all would know it if I did._

_Summary: NCIS agents and teams around the world race against the clock to investigate a murder and a possible terrorist plot on the National Mall on the Fourth of July._

_A/N: Yay! I'm back! I actually haven't gone far; I've just been over at Fictionpress, working on a story there that has turned into an epic debacle (check it out; my Fictionpress name is the same as on here). I'm still working on that one, but I missed my NCIS fans so much that I had just to start this one. Since it's been so long since my last story, the standard summary of the series (the most recent of which is _Timing in Everything_), will be appearing right after this author's note. I recommend you read them first, because this series went AU somewhere in mid season 6. As with the other stories in the series, we have an established Tiva relationship (they're married, with a kid on the way). And as with the other stories, writing has been a bit slow (I'm still working on _Hitting Hard_, over at Fictionpress, and I still have a full-time job), so posting will be a bit slow. But be patient; I would never leave you hanging. _

_On a side note, now that there are images associated with the stories, if there's anyone who likes doing that sort of thing (my artistic ability is limited to writing) and would be interested in making images for any of my stories without getting paid anything at all, aside from a mention (what can I say? I'm not getting anything for writing), I'd love to have some pictures. Just drop me a line and let me know._

_And here are your brief (very brief) rundowns:_

Deep Lacerations: _A former Army medical examiner joins the NCIS team temporarily, and almost immediately, the MCRT has a case that makes them realize that there is more to her story than they previously realized._

Of Jews and Gentiles:_ The murder of a Navy lieutenant and attempted murder of his active duty, Jewish girlfriend gets the attention of the MCRT. As they look into the case, they realize that it is only the most recent of a string of attacks against Jews and their non-Jewish significant others. Tony and Ziva go undercover as a couple, and in the process of running down leads and figuring out who is responsible, their relationship becomes much less undercover than they ever planned._

Truths and Covert Lies: _Ziva's father is hospitalized in Israel and requests for Ziva, and by extension Tony, to fly to Tel Aviv. What Director David asks of her is so appalling that she fails to realize what is happening right in front of her eyes, and after the director is murdered, it is up to her, and the rest of the MCRT, to figure out why._

Consequences of Love and War: _A Navy physician is abducted from her office in Afghanistan, and her husband, a former Marine scout sniper, calls the only person he could think to call: his former gunnery sergeant, Leroy Jethro Gibbs. The investigation takes them through the underground world of the Taliban and those who finance the organization, making Gibbs realize that there is more to his team than he previously thought._

Lethal Fractures: _Dr. Sonja Gracy is back from Hawaii, and her first case is actually the latest in a series of her old cases, the most recent murder of a serial killer she had been following throughout her career. This time, the killer made a mistake and killed a Marine sergeant, and the MCRT is determined to figure out who it was and why. The why, however, proves to be too close for comfort for Dr. Gracy._

The Price of Honesty: _NCIS Special Agent Stan Burley is murdered in his apartment in Bahrain, and Director Vance assigns Gibbs and the rest of the MCRT to the case to figure out why. After they solve the case, Vance promotes DiNozzo to Burley's former position, and the director of Mossad reassigns Ziva to join him._

Fallen Angels: _a senior JAG goes missing in Bahrain. A junior pilot falls from the skies under suspicious circumstances. Although these seem completely unrelated at first, it doesn't take DiNozzo in Bahrain nor Gibbs and McGee in DC long to realize that there's more going on than they first realized. And while McGee finally gets a girlfriend who is neither crazy nor involved in criminal activity, Tony and Ziva tie the knot in a way that only they can._

Timing in Everything: _a bomb goes off on an aircraft carrier during a Family Weekend and an Israeli training exercise. Ziva investigates the Israelis, DiNozzo and his new team work up the bombing, and Gibbs and Abby fly to Bahrain to help. In the end, Tony and Ziva discover that who was behind the attack wasn't the only surprise Bahrain had in store for them._

_I also recommend _Falling on Unyielding Ground_, over on Fictionpress, as well as_ Hitting Hard_, the work in progress over there__ (same pen name; there's a link on my profile here on FFN). There are going to be appearances of characters that are introduced in that story. I'll try not to make this one too dependent on that one, but it might help with the background and figuring out the relationships._

_I hope you enjoy this one, and don't hesitate with any reviews/thoughts/questions/feedback/suggestions/etc. I love to hear from my readers. _

* * *

September 2009

The Arlington bar was busy, just like it was every Tuesday night for trivia night, and the two bartenders couldn't manage to keep up with the people standing three-deep in front of them. Kasey Khalid leaned his forearms against the bar, waiting for his turn and trying to keep his ears open for the start of the next round of questions. He glanced over at his table—his trivia team—and couldn't help but smile, despite his frustration at getting another round of drinks. It had only been six weeks since he and his wife, Cora, moved to the DC area, but sometimes, like at pub trivia, it was like they had lived there forever for how easily they had found a group of friends. Cora said that was all him; their college orientation group nicknamed him 'Mr. Charisma' for his ability to strike up a conversation with anyone and everyone. Of course, the fact that they were both Ohio State alumni and their friends were also in the OSU DC Alumni Association might have had something to do with it as well.

"What can I get you?" The bartender's voice intruded into Khalid's thoughts and he turned to face the man, pouring a beer for another customer.

"Water, Guinness, two Harps, and a cider," Khalid recited the drink orders of the table.

"Over there?" the bartender asked, nodding at the group.

"Yeah."

"Have a seat. I'll get the waitress to bring it over. You have a tab?"

"Here, keep it open," Khalid replied, handing over his credit card. The bartender nodded and turned to enter in the drink order into the system. A minute later, he nodded again and gestured Khalid back to his table. The engineer gave a wave of acknowledgement before returning to his booth, sliding into the seat next to Cora and giving her a kiss on the cheek. She barely acknowledged his return, deep in a debate about immigration reform with Stan, the pudgy middle-aged man across from them.

"That's not what I'm saying," Cora argued, her thick dark hair swaying as she shook her head emphatically. Born in El Salvador and part of a big, loud, Salvadoran family, there wasn't much she did that wasn't emphatic. "What I _am_ saying is that the difficulties immigrants face in getting healthcare—and I'm talking illegal _and legal_ immigrants here—is costing the healthcare system much more—"

"But I don't want _my_ hard-earned money going to taxes that are paying for the medical insurance of people who _don't_ work—"

"I'm not just talking about the fact that so many immigrants are without insurance coverage," Cora interrupted. "I'm talking about language barriers, office hours, costs of medication, costs of doctor's visits, of hospitalizations, of procedures—"

"We're ready for round four!" the trivia announcer said over the sound system.

"Just in time," Khalid joked. His comment was toasted by two of their teammates, who obviously felt the same way about the discussion as Khalid—it was far too heavy for a trivia night.

"American history!" the announcer continued. Two of their teammates made faces, but both Kasey and Cora smiled and leaned forward in anticipation.

"You can't tell me you're happy about the category," Kevin, an advertising executive, complained. "You're an engineer and a nurse practitioner."

"Have you ever tried taking a citizenship exam?" Cora asked rhetorically. "It's nothing _but_ American history. I know more about this than almost anyone born in this country. And Kasey knows just as much."

"Almost as much," Khalid joked. The fact that they were both immigrants to the United States was what brought them together out of their orientation group before they even started college, even though their immigration experiences were completely different. Cora was eight when her well-off family made the move from El Salvador to Toledo, Ohio, where her father, a Ph.D. in microbiology, accepted a teaching position at the University of Toledo. Kasey's family, on the other hand, were refugees from Somalia who arrived to Columbus when he was fourteen. It wasn't easy, arriving in a country on the other side of the world with only his parents, memories of his siblings, and his UN refugee card, but Kasey was nothing if not determined. He wasn't content just staying in his Somali community; he was going to learn English, get an education, and make money. America was always seen as the land of opportunity, the place where everyone had whatever they wanted, and he was going to make that a reality. Nineteen when he started college on a full-ride scholarship, married at twenty-three, graduating with a degree in electrical engineering and a position to begin training for his professional engineering certification when he was twenty-four, he was going to make something of himself.

And now, four years later, he had traded in his status as a refugee to that of a naturalized citizen, had a beautiful wife and a kid on the way, owned a townhouse in Alexandria, was a professional engineer in Washington, DC and making more money than he had thought possible back when he was fourteen and overwhelmed by the foreign land he had found himself in.

Life was good.

He turned and gave his wife a kiss on the temple, earning him that smile he loved to see as she strained to hear the trivia question. Of everything in his life, it was Cora he was most grateful for, more so than the scholarships and the jobs and instant friends from the OSU DC Alumni Association. He didn't know where he would be if she hadn't been there encouraging him, and didn't want to think about it.

After seven rounds of trivia, the Buckeyes finished in a respectable third place—the highest since the Khalids started coming after their move from Columbus—and they all stuck around for a celebratory round. "I'll get it," Khalid volunteered, sliding out of the booth. "I still need to close my tab, anyway."

If anything, the bar was more full than after the third round, leaving Khalid in his previous position of leaning against the bar, waiting to be noticed. It wasn't too long before he was, but not by the people he was hoping to be noticed by. "Kaseem Khalid," a deep voice behind him said. He turned, confused; nobody except his parents called him by his full name, not since he was in high school in Columbus and none of his classmates could pronounce it properly.

He turned and found himself facing two large, solidly-built black men wearing suits and carrying briefcases, and he was sure he had never met either of them before. "That's me," he finally replied. "Can I help you?"

The two glanced at each other and back at him. "We have some business to discuss," one said. Khalid could tell by his accent that he was Somali.

"Well, this is not a good time," he replied dismissively, turning back toward the bar. "I'm here with friends."

"I suggest you make the time," the other man said. Khalid frowned as he turned again. He was ready to tell these men just what he thought and tell them to get lost, but the man's next words stopped any protests he might have had. "It concerns your family. Specifically, your father. Ali Khalid."

Khalid wasn't especially close to his parents. He didn't know if he had ever been. He was the third of four children back in Somalia, an older brother, older sister, and younger sister rounding out the family. Mohammad had been sixteen when the war began and had been convinced by his friends to join the fighting. They found out a month later that he had been killed in less than a week. Both Fathia and Mariam had gone in the same way as most adolescent girls in their village when the rebels had come through: raped and beaten and left for dead, if they weren't already. Kasey was sure that neither of his parents got over the loss of three children so closely together, and even though he was sure it wasn't intentional, they managed to make him feel guilty about being the one who survived.

It didn't help his relationship with his parents that, while he was focused on becoming an American and living the American dream, they were content to remain Somali. They learned just enough English to get by and rarely left their small section of Columbus. It was hard for Kasey to reconcile this with what he knew of his parents before the war—two well-educated professionals who daily spouted the importance of education to their children—to the isolated people they became after. If it weren't for his two younger siblings, he probably wouldn't have had any contact with his parents after he started college, but as the much-older brother, he felt like it was his job to keep fifteen-year-old Alex and eleven-year-old Sarah from falling into the same trap as their parents, isolating themselves from the world around them by surrounding themselves with people just like them.

Despite his differences with his parents, though, they were still his parents, and he didn't want anything bad to happen to them. "What about my father?" he finally asked. Again, the two men looked at each other before responding.

"To put a long story short, his involvement in certain activities at the beginning of the civil war would likely be of great interest to the United Nations. I am certain they do not realize that refugee status was offered to a person with such a past."

"What past?" Khalid scoffed. "He managed a bank."

"The rebellion was funded somehow."

Kasey Khalid was a pretty smart man, and he was starting to see just how the dots were being connected. He had no idea if anything that the two men were saying was true, but he knew how the United States responded when there was even a question of criminal activity in the pasts of those they offer asylum. "What does this have to do with me?"

They seemed incapable of answering questions without first looking at each other, which was exactly what they did. "Someone with your talents and your position is of great interest to us," the one on the right finally said. "Think of it as being on retainer. Only instead of money, you are being paid by our silence in this manner." They looked at each other again, then at him. "Do you understand?"

He understood perfectly. Every time a government building had to be built or renovated, the plans had to go by a professional engineer to make sure they were sound, and his new employer had quite a few contracts in the federal government. That sort of information—building schematics, strengths, weaknesses—was classified because of the potential security treat involved if it fell into the wrong hands.

He was looking at the wrong hands. Four of them.

There had to be a way out of this.

He couldn't think of one.

"I understand."


	2. Chapter 2

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 2**

_A/N: Thanks to **Shulesaddict77** for the Tiva pics. I've put some of them up on stories I think they fit the best for. Again, if anyone wants to contribute any images toward any of my stories (since that's now included on both FFN and Fictionpress), drop me a line._

_Still none of our favorite team in this one, but be patient..._

* * *

June 2012

NCIS Analyst Vanessa Carter strummed her fingers on her steering wheel, frustrated with the never-ending gridlock of traffic in DC. _What is it this time?_ she mocked to herself. _President decided he needed to treat himself to pizza in Dupont?_ For as fun as random famous-people sightings had been when she first moved to DC, the havoc they wreaked on traffic was pretty much the opposite of fun. She wished that they all—but especially the president, since his movements required roadblocks and traffic diversions and extra security—would just stay at home and order their pizza to be delivered, like everyone else. Hell, Matchbox delivered—it wasn't like you had to settle for Domino's.

Her VW Jetta inched forward slightly in traffic, only to be stopped by the light again turning red three cars in front of her. "Seriously?" she shouted at the universe in general. She had something real, for once, but instead of acting on it, she was stuck in DC traffic. She wondered if that would be considered 'irony', but figured it was too close to something out of that Alanis Morissette song to actually be irony.

Of course, she wouldn't be stuck here in rush hour traffic—seriously, when was it _not_ rush hour in DC?—if her idiot of a boss had half a brain enough to listen to her. She had come across intel—good, strong intel, good enough and strong enough that she was coming into the office on a Saturday to work it up—of plans for something—something big—going down on the Fourth of July, but he said it wasn't enough, didn't tell them enough. So she did what any good analyst would do, and looked for more, and was surprised—shocked, was a better verb—at what she found.

This wasn't just plans for something big on the Fourth of July. This was plans for something big on the _National Mall_ for the Fourth of July. She had done the Mall for the Fourth thing, her first summer living in DC, and knew first-hand just how big of a deal that was. There was nothing like competing with 200,000 of your closest friends for a spot on the Metro after the fireworks were over.

She took that to her boss, who, again, shook his head. Not enough, he had said. _This doesn't tell me anything, _he had said. _What are their plans? Are they going to send missiles toward the Washington Monument? A dirty bomb from the Smithsonian? Weaponized smallpox released with the first volley of fireworks?_ He had gone on, but she stopped listening. If he wasn't going to take this seriously, she would, which was why she was heading toward the Mall after a long day of staring at a computer screen. And if finding something that the field agents could use would get her a slot at FLETC, well, it was a win-win situation.

She finally managed to get to the Mall and actually found a parking space near the Smithsonian Natural History Museum, two facts that amazed her greatly. Stepping away, she locked her Jetta and walked forward, suddenly second-guessing her bright idea of coming down here to investigate herself. _This is why there are field agents_, she mocked to herself. She pushed the thought out of her mind; it was still early in the evening and the place was still littered with tourists. It was just about as safe as it could get.

_Just about_, Carter thought, remembering that she was there because of her intel regarding something happening on the Fourth. That would be another scenario during which the Mall would be filled with tourists; there was no use thinking that there was safety in numbers. Avoiding getting shot, sure—nobody would want that many potential witnesses—but avoiding any and all danger? Not so much.

She scolded herself again, this time for being paranoid; after all, she had been down to the Mall countless times, in high-traffic times and low-traffic times, and absolutely nothing had ever happened.

Carter walked around the side of the Smithsonian building until she was standing on the dirt walking path that surrounded the grassy part of the Mall, and just looked around. She had no idea what she was looking for; at this point, it was so far before the Fourth that she was sure she wasn't going to find it, anyway. No, this wasn't about making the case-breaking discovery as much as it was about getting a feel for the environment. And figuring out where that discovery would be, of course.

The museums were beginning to wind down for the evening, closing times approaching soon, but the warm weather kept the Mall itself littered with people, from the joggers willing to brave DC's evening heat and humidity for a run around the Mall after work to the mothers pushing strollers to the Asian tourists and everyone in between, and nobody gave Vanessa Carter as much as a second glance, which was fine by her. She was there to look around, not to attract anyone's attention.

She took her eyes off the people and focused on the buildings, taking note of everything she saw. There was the Washington Monument, and further down the Mall, the WWII and Lincoln Memorials. The construction on the reflecting pool was still in progress, even after two years, fences and a long slab of concrete taking up the space between the WWII and Lincoln Memorials. To her left was the Capitol, and in all, nothing of those buildings was remarkable. Directly in front of her was the Smithsonian Castle, some scaffolding around the side of the dark brick building as it got a facelift, and to the left of that, the Air and Space Museum, its shiny glass windows and unusual architecture at odds with the surroundings buildings, although the Native American Museum wasn't much better.

Behind her, in the direction she came, was the Natural History Museum, and just across one of the small streets that crossed through the Mall was the American History Museum, the entrance finally completed and the barriers that had been there since she moved to DC finally gone.

Nothing unusual. It looked exactly like the Mall had looked whenever she visited, from her visit to the capital city when she was thirteen.

Not exactly. She frowned as she again turned to her right, now facing the Washington Monument and the areas beyond. It had been more than two years, and there was still little evidence that the reflecting pool would be done soon. She realized for the first time that she didn't even know what they were doing to the reflecting pool, she just knew that it was gone, an eyesore on the Mall. _If someone were to have planted something, that would be the perfect place_, she thought to herself. Her imagination, sharpened from a lifetime of reading mystery novels, tried to figure out what exactly it could be. A bomb? Maybe, but somebody would probably notice it being placed, with how tightly the area was locked down when the construction crew wasn't there, and how many people were probably on the crew when they were there. She frowned as she realized that she had never actually seen people working on the reflection pool; if they worked at night and there weren't too many of them, maybe someone could have planted a bomb. Or a body. A body could be buried under the new concrete, but as damning as that would be to whoever put it there, it did nothing to explain the intel on a terrorist attack for the Fourth. A radiation source would certainly be bad, but threats of cancer in ten to thirty years wasn't exactly a terrorist plot.

She began the trek toward the fence that surrounded what remained of the giant man-made pond, her mind still working through possibilities and dismissing them as soon as they came up. Really, she couldn't think of a single thing that made sense, but at this point, she refused to give in. She was going to figure this out, or at least exhaust all of her options before she admitted defeat.

Carter walked around the WWII Memorial, for the first time since she first came across it, not giving it the attention it deserved as she focused on what was on just the other side. For a long moment, she stood as close as she could to the reflecting pool, her fingers in the links of the chain fence as she just stared at the concrete, wondering what secrets it could be holding. _How can this possibly be dangerous?_ she asked herself. Sure, once it was done, a kid could fall in and drown, and unless that new lining was an insect repellant, this could potentially be a large breeding site for mosquitoes, but beyond that, she was at a loss.

Until she saw an opening in the concrete, large enough for a man to crawl through, and she realized what it could be hiding: a tunnel.

On the Fourth, the entire mall, from just west of the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial, was surrounded by a fence, the only access points closely monitored, anyone carrying anything larger than a wallet needing searched. Although she wouldn't usually put the Park Police at the top of her list of agencies able to provide protection, on the Fourth of July they made that area one of the most secure in the District.

If someone was to want to bring anything into that secured area, a tunnel would probably be the only way.

She looked up abruptly from that shadow with the sensation that she was no longer alone. She managed a small smile and nod to the tall African-American man who stepped next to her. "This Mall, it is quite the sight, is it not?" he asked, and with an accent that thick, she revised her first impression of him: African, not African-American.

"It is," Carter said with a nod. "I like to come here to think, sometimes."

"For me as well," the man replied, also nodding. "Your country has much history."

She laughed slightly at the irony—if it was really irony—of the words. "Not as much as Somalia," she pointed out to him. Her words were met with an expression of surprise. "That is the accent, right?" she asked, now wondering if she had gotten it wrong. Linguistics was part of her analyst duties, but wasn't her best area of study.

"It is," the man confirmed. That was the last thing she heard before she crumpled to the ground, her neck very quickly and very efficiently broken.

The man glanced around casually; confident that nobody had seen or heard anything, he calmly walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 3**

****_A/N: And we finally get to meet the team :) Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing and patiently waiting for a new chapter each week!_

* * *

At first, the ringing of the phone was a confusing intrusion into the dream of NCIS Special Agent Tim McGee, then it was just an unwelcome one. By the time it registered that the phone wasn't part of the dream at all, but something that was happening on the outside, it was too late to salvage the once-pleasant dream.

"Don't answer it," the mop of dark curls murmured from the other pillow, and for a second, he was tempted to obey. It was the first weekend in two months that he had off from work and she had free to leave Patuxent River Naval Air Station, and the last thing he wanted was to cut it short with anything, but especially a case, which he was beginning to suspect was what he would find on the other end of the phone call. After all, Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs was the only one to call at 0300, and the only time he called was for a case.

"It's Gibbs," McGee replied as he studied the display on the phone. Harley McNamee, the mop of dark curls and Marine test pilot in training, just groaned as she rolled over. "Yeah, Boss?" McGee asked with a sigh as he accepted the call.

_"Got a case,"_ Gibbs said, getting immediately down to business, as always. _"One of our own. Analyst found dead at the Mall."_

McGee sighed and wondered why nobody ever died during business hours in a normal working week. He decided right then that in his next novel, that would be the situation. They could call him 'The Nine-to-Five Killer'. Or he'd think of something else. "Okay," he said, resigning himself to having to go to work. "I'll meet you there. Do you need me to call the rest of the team?"

_"Got it covered,"_ Gibbs replied, and although McGee had no idea what his boss meant by that, he wasn't going to argue. And Gibbs wasn't going to give him an opportunity to do so, either; the line was already dead.

He turned to the small mass of sleeping pilot still in his bed, and already hated this case and everything it would involve. In another twelve hours, she would have to begin the trip back to Pax River, and this was certainly not how he planned on spending the last twelve hours they would have to spend together for a week and a half. "Hey, Harley—"

"I heard," she interrupted with a sigh. The blanket lowered just enough for him to see dark brown eyes blinking in his direction.

"I'm sorry," he said, knowing how little help those words at 0300. "I'll give you a call when we're done at the scene."

She nodded and yawned. "Good luck with the case," was all she said before again pulling the blanket over her head. Well, that was better than other things she could have said, but that wasn't much of a consolation, and didn't make him feel much better about sneaking out of his own apartment hours before the sun would be coming up.

* * *

It was already warm at 0400, promising another scorching June day that made McGee glad that most of his work took place in an air-conditioned building. Assuming they finished processing the scene before the sun came up, that was.

Just as Gibbs had directed, the senior field agent found a roped-off area at the southwest corner of the construction area around reflecting pool, complete with the crime scene and medical examiner vans and littered with people. McGee realized guiltily that he was the last of his team to arrive, and that fact didn't escape Gibbs' notice, either. "Glad you could join us," he said sarcastically as McGee approached. He felt his face flush.

"Sorry, Boss," he said automatically. "Not easy to get here from Silver Spring." While the lack of traffic did make the drive faster than it normally would have been, he still had lights to contend with, which never made the process much fun.

"Maybe it's time to move, then," Gibbs replied before moving away. Sure that he wasn't going to get any further instructions from the supervisory field agent, McGee turned to the nearest person, which, fortunately for him, was the team's junior agent, Dwayne Wilson.

"What's the situation?" he asked with a sigh. Wilson gave him a sympathetic smile before beginning.

"Vanessa Carter," he said, gesturing toward the body. "She's an analyst in the AFRICOM division. Early morning—or late night—jogger found her around 0200; took local PD until almost 0300 to realize she was one of ours and call it into us."

"The ability of the human mind to ignore things it does not want to see will never cease to amaze me," Dr. Donald Mallard, the NCIS medical examiner, observed from his position kneeling next to the victim.

"Ducky?" McGee asked.

"Our poor Ms. Carter has been here, out in the open, for several hours before anyone bothered to alert the authorities." The elderly medical examiner was currently examining the body probe temperature. "Based on her temperature, I estimate time of death to have been between 1900 and 2300 last night."

"That is kinda a long time to be out in the open in a national park," McGee commented, glancing around. Even at 0400, there were already people on the Mall, some curious onlookers but some others with cameras aimed at the various monuments and memorials and some joggers trying to get in some exercise before heading off to work. "What do we have for cause of death, Ducky?"

"Well, my boy, I can't be sure before I get Ms. Carter to the autopsy table, but I am certain the unnatural angle of her neck has something to do with it."

"Broken neck?" McGee asked with a frown. Wilson raised his camera and took a few shots of Ducky pointing to the area in interest.

"What still—," McGee started to ask Wilson, but Gibbs interrupted the rest of the question about what McGee should have been working on at the scene.

"Hey!" the supervisory field agent shouted out. All three agents under him looked over quickly to see him pointing at the ground. "Footprints."

The newest probie, Sofia Ruiz, rushed forward to immediately start taking pictures of whatever it was that Gibbs had seen, but Wilson and McGee remained rooted where they stood. "Uh, Boss?" McGee finally vocalized. "It's the Mall. There are millions of footprints." And since it had been more than a week since the last time it rained, nothing was washing away the old ones.

"These are leading away from the body, McGee," Gibbs replied as he continued to follow that only he could see, Ruiz following closely behind him and snapping pictures like her future career depended on it. Which it might; she was the fifth probie to be on the team since Tony and Ziva left for Bahrain less than nine months before. They had yet to find one capable of completing the probationary period.

"Ruiz was sketching the scene," Wilson finally said once they were sure Gibbs had moved out of earshot. "I've been looking for physical evidence, not that there's much to be found."

"No brass to police when you break a neck," McGee said, agreeing. Wilson nodded.

"We'll probably be done here as soon as Ducky and Palmer get the body into the van," the junior agent commented. "And Gibbs returns from his footprint trail," he added, shrugging a shoulder. He gave a sympathetic smile. "Sorry you had to come down from Silver Spring. Hey, isn't Harley in town this weekend?"

"Yeah," McGee replied bitterly. "We weren't supposed to be on call."

"Yeah, I wondered about that, too." Wilson shrugged again. "The joys of working for Gibbs, I guess."

"No kidding." He had been Gibbs' senior field agent since September, when Special Agent Stan Burley was killed and Tony DiNozzo took his place in Bahrain, and he still had no idea how Tony had managed to hold the job as long as he had and remained sane. Well, as sane as Tony was. Maybe a little bit of insanity to start with was necessary to be Gibbs' senior field agent.

He just wished he knew _exactly _what it took, because it had been almost nine months as the senior field agent, and he still hadn't figured it out. At this point, he wasn't sure he ever would.


	4. Chapter 4

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 4**

_A/N: Thanks for everyone who's been reading and reviewing! I love hearing from my readers. To everyone who has asked where Tony and Ziva are or expressed interest in seeing them, be patient, they are coming. To be honest, this story will feature a lot of McGee; I just didn't know how to express that on the "characters" selection when I was posting, and still express that this is in the same series. _

_Onto the story._

* * *

The sky was just beginning to lighten into dawn when the team arrived at NCIS headquarters at the Navy Yard, and despite McGee's promise to call Harley when they were done with the crime scene, he figured it would be better to let her get a little sleep. It wasn't often she had three days off from her grueling schedule of classes and flying, and just because he wasn't allowed to get any rest didn't mean that she couldn't.

Instead, he doled out responsibilities to the other team members, giving Wilson the more difficult job of looking into Vanessa Carter's personal life while Ruiz did the same thing on her professional life, figuring that everything the analyst had been working on would be on the NCIS servers. Gibbs had, not surprisingly, disappeared, either to get a refill on his coffee or to be looking over Ducky's shoulder until the autopsy was completed, and Abby wouldn't be coming in for a few more hours, which left McGee confused about what he was to be doing, for the second time that day.

"Sofia," he said, getting an instant response from the new probie. "Where did that trail of footprints lead?"

"Oh," the probie said, her large dark eyes blinking. "To the curb of the street. Gibbs thinks maybe the suspect was parked there."

Well, that gave McGee somewhere to start, even though he was sure it was going to be a dead end. "I'll take a look at the traffic cams, see if they have anything parked there in the hours Ducky said she was killed."

"Let me show you exactly where the trail stopped, so you know where to look," Ruiz said, rising from her chair to look through the crime scene photos on McGee's computer. She was bent over his keyboard for the better part of five minutes before speaking again. "Here. This was the end. And the next picture…" she advanced the slide show of pictures. "That's the position on the street."

"Thanks," he replied, reclaiming his computer from the compact Latina woman. It wasn't too far from where Vanessa Carter's body had been found, and he got to work trying to figure out what car, if any, was parked there right after Carter was killed.

He didn't know how many hours had gone by before Gibbs reappeared, a cup of coffee in his hand and giving nobody any frame of reference as to which number that was. "What've you got?" he asked in his characteristic gruff manner. McGee made a mental note to check the draft of his latest novel to see if he captured Special Agent L.J. Tibbs' attitude properly.

"I've been looking into Analyst Carter's work," Ruiz was quick to volunteer, making it sound like it was her own initiative that led her to do that. McGee let her have it; as the probie, she had a lot more to prove than he did. "She's in the AFRICOM division—"

"Already knew that," Gibbs interrupted. Ruiz's tan skin turned an interesting shade of pink at that.

"Right," she said, agreeing. "Her supervisor is Dr. David Mitchell. According to the AFRICOM division, he's not on this weekend, but I accessed Carter's workstation on the NCIS server," another thing McGee taught her how to do, and another thing that went without credit to him, "and the last thing she had been working on was a cache of emails that came in from NSA last week. Her online searches involved Fourth of July activities on the Mall, so I think it's a safe bet to say that she was there to investigate potential weaknesses."

"We don't operate on safe bets," Gibbs informed her. The red color on her cheeks increased. "The footprints?"

"Dead end," McGee piped up. He shrugged at Gibbs' glare. "Traffic cams showed a car there from 1800 until midnight. I'm checking other cars on the street around the time of the murder, but still waiting for results."

"Plates for the car you did find?"

"Car's registered to a Dr. Jennifer Scott. Captain in the Army, surgeon at Walter Reed. Gave her a call; she confirms that she was down at the Mall last night." Well, she confirmed that after swearing at him for waking her up an hour before she had to be back at the hospital for work.

"For six hours?"

McGee shrugged again. "She was there with two friends, also Army physicians, Captain Emily Gregory at Walter Reed and Captain Elisabeth Lyon, assigned to, uh, Walter Reed Army Institute of Research." Trust the Army to name two completely different facilities after the same person. "They walked up to Adams Morgan and had dinner, then walked back to the Mall, saw the monuments at night, and got back in the car. They dropped Captain Gregory off at her apartment in Bethesda and then Lyon stayed with Scott at her condo in North Bethesda." It was a lot of walking, especially considering how hot it had been the evening before, but McGee had been raised in a Navy family and worked for NCIS long enough not to question it when Service Members claimed to do ridiculous amounts of exercise.

"They see anything about Carter?"

McGee shook his head. "I asked Captain Scott. She says she didn't notice anything."

"Gonna want to talk to the others."

"Got their contact info." Gibbs nodded but didn't vocalize what both he and McGee were thinking—there was no way a group of Army doctors was going to notice a body and not act on it, and the likelihood of any of the group committing murder and the others letting her get away with it were equally unlikely.

"Wilson."

"Been looking into Analyst Carter's personal life," Dwayne jumped in automatically. "Not that there's much to look into. She's single, lives in a one bedroom apartment near the U Street Metro station. Coworkers think she might be dating someone, but I haven't found anyone who's met him or can even give me a name. She moved to DC from Oklahoma three years ago, right after she finished her bachelor's degree at Oklahoma State University, been working for us the entire time. She's working on a master's degree online and has applied four times for a field agent position."

"Any reason why she hasn't gotten it?"

Dwayne shrugged. "Bad economy?" he guessed. "More qualified candidates? She doesn't exactly have a lot of experience." Gibbs nodded for him to continue. "Her parents, a brother, and a sister still live in Oklahoma. They haven't been notified yet. She doesn't have a Facebook page that I can find, so I haven't been able to get anything from that." Gibbs frowned at the reference.

"I'll explain later, Boss," McGee said quickly. It was easier to explain than try to figure out why Gibbs still didn't know what Facebook was.

"We need to notify the family." Everyone turned toward the stairs to see Director Vance descending.

"Uh, closest field office is Dallas," McGee offered. Although they've been known to make long-distance notifications over the phone, the death of an NCIS employee required a little bit more personal attention.

Vance checked his watch, which prompted the same motion from the MCRT members. Seven-thirty; far too early to have been at work for as many hours as they have been—on a Sunday—and even earlier in Dallas, TX. "Give Agent Jenkins a call in about half an hour and read him into the case. Gibbs, I don't think I need to tell you that this is our top priority. Nobody kills somebody from our family and gets away with it."

"Wasn't planning on it," Gibbs replied. Vance nodded his satisfaction and reversed direction, heading back up into his office. Gibbs waited until the office door was closed before he spoke again. "McGee, talk to Agent Jenkins, see if he can get something from the family about whether or not she has a boyfriend." His cell phone rang. "Thanks, Abs. I'll be right down," was all that was said on his end before he ended the call. Without another word to his team, he turned and headed for the elevator.

* * *

NCIS forensic scientist Abby Sciuto usually didn't mind being called into the office on a Sunday, but what she did mind was being called into the office before six am on a Sunday, for a case that seemed to have very little forensic evidence.

New Probie—Abby didn't waste time learning their names until she started to think they might stick, not with how quick the turnover was for probies on Team Gibbs—had taken pictures of footprints around the body, and of all the pictures, she had managed maybe two that were good enough to use to search the shoe tread database, which was still searching for a match. After she had gotten that going, she turned her attention to Analyst Carter's clothes in hopes of finding a hair or fiber that wasn't supposed to be there. Fortunately, with the DC heat, Carter had been wearing a skirt and tank top, which meant that there wasn't much fabric to search. Unfortunately, not much fabric to search made it less likely that they would find anything.

"What've you got, Abs?" Gibbs asked as he strode into the lab.

"A hangover from the party last night," she answered promptly. In response, he handed over the Caff-Pow he had been carrying. The caffeine helped, but only a little bit. "Unfortunately, that's about it," she continued after gulping down a quarter of the oversized drink. She gestured toward the small pile of clothes. "This is what our victim was wearing when she died," she explained. "She fell into the dirt when her neck was broken," Abby continued, pointing out the dirt stains and the light dust that was everywhere on the Mall. "I wiped down the parts of the shirt where the bad guy might have touched her to break her neck in hopes of getting a DNA sample. Ducky also wiped down her neck and I'm running that, but those are a long shot. A really long shot. I'm still doing it, because right now, that's all we have, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it. Or the boat. Or anything."

"You'll find it."

"Gibbs, I can only find something if there's something there to find," Abby said, exasperated. "I can't invent DNA out of thin air. If it's there, I'll find it, but if it's not, we have nothing."

"There's always something," Gibbs countered as he headed for the elevator.

Too tired and too exasperated to bother arguing with him, Abby just let him leave, sighing as the doors closed. Her eyes returned to the clothes in front of her and the computer still trying to find a match to the footprints. "There always is something," she agreed, talking to herself and her equipment. It was Locard's exchange principle, that every interaction resulted in the transfer of something, either from the perpetrator to the victim or scene, or vice versa. Unfortunately, forensic science wasn't yet advanced enough to find all of those trace exchanges, and when the science was advanced enough, those exchanges weren't always meaningful. Even if they got DNA from Carter's clothes or neck, it was only useful if it had a match in the database or if they got a suspect. Even if they got a match to the treads of the footprints, it could be a common shoe that a hundred thousand people in the DC area had in their closets. "But something isn't always anything, right, Major Mass Spec?" The mass spectrometer, not surprisingly, didn't respond. Abby took another long drink of the fresh Caff-Pow, and then got back to work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 5**

****_A/N: This chapter is for you, all my Tiva fans who have asking where their favorite couple is :)_

* * *

"What do you know about Al-Shabaab?" NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo frowned down at the hamburgers on the grill at the question, before looking over at the person who asked the question. David Cohen, one of Ziva's Mossad operatives, was looking back at him with an expectant look on his face as he brought his beer to his lips.

"Is that the new Saudi movie coming to the theater?" DiNozzo finally asked in reply. "You're going to have to go to that one on your own. I can't handle Saudi cinema. Too many bad actors and not enough scantily clad women."

"Do not listen to him," Ziva David said with a sigh as she emerged from the house, somehow still able to glide gracefully across the patio despite the very large pregnant belly she was carrying. "He is not as stupid as he would like people to believe. Most of the time."

"Thanks, Sweetcheeks," DiNozzo said as he greeted his wife with a kiss. He turned back to Cohen to see him watching them with an amused expression on his face. "Somali off-shoot of Al-Qaeda. Just made the official CIA list of bad guys earlier this year. What about them?"

"Am I not allowed to quiz you on relevant terrorist organizations?" Cohen asked innocently. He turned to his case officer. "Please tell me you're starting maternity leave tomorrow."

"Does it look like I have a child yet?" Ziva asked.

"No, no, you still look pregnant. Probably too pregnant to come to work tomorrow."

"We actually discussed this," DiNozzo interjected. "She doesn't trust you without supervision, so she's going to keep going to work and I'm going to take the maternity leave. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement, really."

"You are saying you trust your office to Special Agent Al-Sheik?" Cohen asked with a smirk.

"I swear, I'm going to kill Kim Tomblin for telling you guys my maiden name," Special Agent Gabi Stone called over her shoulder from where she was sitting by the pool.

"Who needs Tomblin?" Cohen asked. "I can do my own research."

"I thought that's why you guys had Dardik."

"Gabi, you have your maiden name on your Facebook account," DiNozzo pointed out to his senior field agent, earning a few chuckles at her expense.

The weekend—sometimes Saturday, sometimes Sunday, depending on if they were making concessions for NCIS Special Agent Todd Freiler, a devout Mormon and the NCIS team's junior field agent; or Avrum Dardik, Mossad's computer analyst and hacker extraordinaire and the only member of the local Mossad team to actually observe the Sabbath—afternoon barbeques and brainstorming stations started a few months after DiNozzo took over the Bahrain office, as a way to unofficially bring the local NCIS and Mossad teams together to compare notes on recent intelligence and see if they could fill in any gaps for each other. It was completely off the books—and probably illegal, but neither DiNozzo nor Ziva had any plans on finding legal counsel for either agency to ask—but thus far, fairly effective. When they could keep everyone on track, which was always easier said than done when both Gabi Stone and David Cohen were in attendance.

"Tony, can you put cheese on my burger?" Cohen asked suddenly.

"Really?" Gabi asked. "What, are you allowed to not keep kosher on Sundays?"

"No, I just like seeing Avrum squirm when I eat something that isn't kosher," he assured her. Sure enough, the young Mossad analyst looked a little green. "Least I'm better than this one," he continued, bolting his thumb toward Ziva. "Your boss introduced her to bacon wrapped scallops."

"I am going to claim pregnancy cravings on this one," Ziva said, completely unconcerned.

"All it would have needed was cream sauce to become the unkosher triumvirate," DiNozzo commented. "Is there a reason you were asking about Al-Shabaab? Have you guys heard something?"

"Aren't they the reason Kenya's now a Force Protection Charlie country?" Gabi asked. "Eric and I wanted to go on safari in Masai Mara over Thanksgiving, but he couldn't get the approval."

"Go anyway," Cohen said with a shrug. Gabi rolled her eyes.

"My husband's a dentist," she reminded him. "He isn't good at breaking rules. But it all worked out. We're going to climb Kili instead. Tanzania's still okay."

"Don't forget to submit the paperwork on the NCIS end," DiNozzo reminded her. "Cohen, your burger's ready. Gabi, are you sure you wanted well-done?"

"I don't trust commissary beef," she replied.

"Isn't this kosher beef?" Dardik asked, suddenly concerned.

"Yes, it's kosher beef, and I'm cooking yours on the complete opposite side of the grill as our evil cheeseburgers," DiNozzo replied, gesturing at the grill with tools before grabbing one and sliding it between two buns and handing it to Ziva, realizing only after doing so that he was supposed to be using separate utensils to keep Dardik's burger kosher. He hoped the analyst hadn't noticed. He turned back to Dardik, knowing how he could get the information he wanted from Cohen without going through Cohen. "Have _you _seen anything new on the Al-Shabaab front?"

"There has been an increase in the number of anti-American statements, but I do not know if it is significant," he replied obediently as he pushed his prescription sunglasses up his nose.

"How much of an increase?" DiNozzo asked.

"Greater than the increase in anti-Kenya statements."

DiNozzo frowned. "Well, that does sound significant," he said slowly. Since Somalia and Kenya were neighbors, most of Al-Shabaab's activities were pointed that way, which was what caused the violence that prevented Dr. Stone from getting the clearance from the Navy he was looking for to go on safari. "Gabi."

"I'll talk to the Somalia analysts," the senior field agent said promptly.

"Expand it to the rest of the Horn of Africa," DiNozzo replied. "Kenya may not be Al-Shabaab's best friend, but that doesn't stop them from recruiting within those borders. They've got a decent sized leadership in Kenya now. Might not hurt to look into signals from there." Especially since everyone in Kenya had a cell phone now, from the president who just delayed the election—again—to the poorest resident of the worst slums.

"I'll talk to that division, too."

"You want to go to some of analyst meetings?"

Gabi made a face. "You know I don't like analyst meetings," she complained.

"Well, I would go, but I don't want to. And your Arabic is better than Freiler's." The junior field agent, despite having been assigned to Bahrain longer than either the team leader or the senior field agent, was far behind both as far as his ability to understand written or spoken Arabic. That was probably because Stone was the daughter of a Saudi oil baron and DiNozzo had been working with, dating, or married to a woman for years who made it her mission to give him a better than basic understanding of the intricacies of the Middle East. Compared to Hebrew, learning Arabic had been easy.

The conversation died down significantly with everyone having food in hand, only to resume at its usual nonsensical baseline once burgers were consumed. "Have you guys figured out a name yet?" Gabi asked as she licked her fingers clean, nodding toward Ziva and her ever-expanding belly.

"We have ideas," DiNozzo replied. "Mostly, completely different ideas." Ziva gave him a mock glare, but she didn't counter the comment, because it was true that while they had less than a month until the baby was due, they had yet to agree on a name. Or even a middle name. The only reason they agreed on a last name was that Ziva acknowledged that hyphened last names were too much to burden a child with.

"David is a good Jewish name," Cohen commented. Ziva fixed her operative with a look.

"I am not going to give our son the same name as my last name," she informed him. "That would be far too confusing for him to figure out."

"If he's anything like his father, he might never figure it out," Cohen countered.

"Ha, ha," DiNozzo said sarcastically.

"What about Joshua?" Gabi asked. "That's a Jewish name, right?"

"We're not going to give him a Jewish name just because he'll technically be Jewish," DiNozzo informed her.

"There's no 'technically' about it," Cohen pointed out. "She is Jewish; therefore, he will be, too."

"He experienced bacon or shellfish or both together at least once a week throughout this entire pregnancy," DiNozzo pointed out. "It might have been enough that he'll be born non-Jewish. We'll just have to wait and see."

Cohen chuckled. "A Hebrew name will be helpful when he is fighting with the IDF," he pointed out.

"We have not yet decided if we will be declaring Israeli citizenship for him," Ziva replied.

"But we're keeping our—his—options open," DiNozzo said quickly. "After all, he might find that a stint in _Sayeret Matkal _is the best he can do for himself."

Cohen chuckled and raised his bottle of beer in a type of toast at the name of the Israeli Defense Force's Special Operations unit, a unit he himself served in for an undisclosed period of time.

"It's about a thousand degrees out here," Gabi declared. "Mind if I get in the pool?"

"That is why we gather around the pool," DiNozzo informed his senior field agent.

"I thought you were supposed to wait an hour after eating before going for a swim," Cohen commented with a lazy smile.

"I'm not going for a swim," Gabi countered. "Just cooling off." As if in defiance of Cohen's words, she peeled off her tank top and stood to remove her shorts to reveal a long, lean, and very tanned body that looked very nice in a bikini. Cohen and Dardik both lost the fight not to stare—if there had been a fight to begin with—but DiNozzo kept his gaze firmly on one of the empty pool lounges on the other side of the pool.

"You are such a gentleman," Ziva teased, pressing her lips to his cheek.

"Now, why would I need to stare at one woman when I have one right here who's the size of two?" he joked in return, getting an eyeroll and a backhanded slap to his chest.

"This is your fault," she informed him.

"It was your birth control that failed," he countered. That was worth another eyeroll and slap to the chest, promptly followed by a light kiss. It had been a little scary at first, a completely unintentional pregnancy, the thought of being parents when neither had put any thought into such a thing before. But that was the reason why pregnancies were nine months long: to give the parents-to-be some time to adjust, and while there were still occasional bouts of fear, they had come to terms with things and were considering themselves closer to being ready. Except for their complete inability to figure out what they were going to name the little guy.

"I am going to go inside and lie down," she declared as she rose from her chair.

"You feeling okay?" he asked, concerned. She waved dismissively.

"Gabi was right. It is too hot out here. Your son is too much of a burden already. It is nice and cool inside." She gave him another kiss. "There is more beer in the fridge if you need it."

"I love you," he called after her.

"I know," she said with a teasing smile.

He watched her as she walked back toward the house, a smile on his face as he brought his beer to his lips. This was what life was all about: a job he enjoyed, coworkers he got along with, a beautiful and talented wife and a miniature Mossad assassin on the way. He was at the top of the world and had every intention of staying there.


	6. Chapter 6

**Wanting for Independence**

_A/N: Couple hours late... hope you'll forgive me. I'm in the process of moving (which is far too much work), and the Comcast guy just got me hooked up. Yay for having internet :)_

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Rick Jenkins pulled into the driveway of the unassuming house and took a deep breath. Even after twenty-five years of experience in law enforcement, he still wasn't comfortable with death notifications; in fact, it was one of the reasons why he left Robbery and Homicide with the Dallas PD in the first place.

There were two types of special agents who ran the subordinate offices: those on their ways up who were looking to beef up their experience before getting picked up to go overseas or to an MCRT, and those on their ways out, who were looking for a quieter workplace to spend the last few years before their fifty-fifth birthdays, when NCIS pulled them from the field. Jenkins was one of the latter; he retired from Dallas PD after twenty years and made the transition into federal service when he realized that "retiring" at forty-three wasn't good for his mental health. Or his marriage. Running the Dallas NCIS office gave him something to do that didn't have the grueling pace of full-time detective work. Or the weekends spent working.

Most of the time, anyway.

He exited the car and made his way up to the door, pressing the doorbell and already dreading the upcoming conversation. They were small-town Oklahoma people; they were probably getting ready for church, looking forward to getting caught up on the local gossip over coffee after the services were over. They had no idea that Jenkins was about to turn their world upside down.

A man around Jenkins' age answered the door a minute later, obviously in the process of tying his tie. "Can I help you, sir?" he asked.

"Mr. Carter?"

"Yes?"

Agent Jenkins pulled out his credentials and showed them to the man. "Sir, I'm Special Agent Rick Jenkins from NCIS. May I come in?"

Parents always seemed to have a sense that something bad was about to happen, and that was the look Carter had on his face as he stepped aside to admit Jenkins. "Let me get my wife," he said, gesturing Jenkins toward the living room. "Maggie," he called out, walking toward the back of the house.

Jenkins had a seat on the couch while he waited for the Carters to come, wishing he didn't know how this was going to go, because no matter the family, telling parents they had lost a child always went the same way. He thought about his own children—Jake, with a new baby of his own; Melissa, down in Galveston on a summer research experience before returning to UT for her senior year of college—and knew that if it was a police officer in his living room telling him that something had happened to one of them, he'd react the same way as countless other parents in the past.

He stood as the Carters came in through the kitchen. "Ma'am, NCIS Special Agent Rick Jenkins," he introduced.

"This is about Nessa?" Maggie Carter asked, her voice tight.

"Yes, ma'am," Jenkins said gently. "Please, sit. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you." He didn't give them time to digest those words before he continued, "I'm sorry, but your daughter was killed in Washington, DC last night."

Mrs. Carter gasped, her hands covering her face; her husband displayed almost no emotion, with the exception of a tightening of his jaw and his hand going to his wife's knee. "What happened?" he asked.

"The Major Case Response Team from NCIS headquarters is investigating," Jenkins replied. "I know this is hard, but if I could ask you some questions, it might help us find her killer."

Mrs. Carter gave a short sob at the words, Mr. Carter squeezing her knee gently. "Of course," he managed.

"Some of her coworkers thought she might be dating someone," he began. Mr. Carter looked over at his wife, who nodded weakly.

"They just started dating," she managed. "John, I think his name is. I don't remember his last name, or even if Nessa told me…" Her voice trailed off into another sob. "How… My little girl…"

Jenkins sat there as he watched Mr. Carter put his arm around his wife, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly. "Do you think he had something…" Mr. Carter asked, his voice trailing off before he could finish the sentence.

"The team is investigating every possible lead," Agent Jenkins replied. "Do you know anything about what John did for a living?" He directed the question at Mrs. Carter, as she seemed to be the only one who knew about this mysterious boyfriend, but she shook her head.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe Torrie knows? Nessa's sister. They tell each other everything."

Jenkins got the number for the Carter's other daughter from Mr. Carter before returning to his questions. "What about work?" he asked. "Did Vanessa ever talk about what she was doing at work?"

Again, both heads on the opposite couch were shaking. "She said she couldn't talk about it," Mr. Carter explained. "We knew in general terms what she did, but she never went into detail."

"She wanted to join the military so bad, but I thought it was…that it would be too…" Mrs. Carter's words were interrupted by another sob.

"She was accepted to the Air Force Academy," Mr. Carter explained. "In the end, she decided that OSU would be a better fit. She double majored in political science and French. It was her French advisor who helped her get the job at NCIS." That made sense; most of west Africa spoke French, and most of east Africa spoke English. She would have been in a good position to analyze intelligence from either half of the continent. The only major players she'd need help with would be the desert countries of the Sahara and Somalia, as they spoke Somali and Arabic.

"Everything was going well at work?"

"She never complains," Mr. Carter replied.

"She wasn't having problems with anyone she worked with?"

"Not that she told us about," Mr. Carter said, giving a slightly apologetic shrug.

"There was one person," Mrs. Carter interjected. "At the beginning, a few years ago. One of the agents, he wouldn't trust any of her work. She complained about that a lot, but hasn't said anything about it recently. I don't know if it's still a problem or not."

"Do you have a name of this agent?"

The two Carters looked at each other. "Stephens, maybe? It was a few years ago," Mr. Carter finally said.

"No," Mrs. Carter said suddenly. "Stover. Agent Stover. I remember now; I was cleaning the stove when we were talking about it on the phone. I thought the name was funny, considering what I was doing." The memory caused another bout of sobbing, which Jenkins waited through.

"Is there anything else the team investigating your daughter's death needs to know?" Jenkins finally asked. Again, they looked at each other before Mr. Carter replied.

"No," he said sadly. "Nobody has a problem with Nessa. She's so nice, so polite, so hard-working…" He stopped, his face contorted as if in pain. "I'm sorry. I just can't…"

"That's okay," Jenkins said as he stood. He pulled a business card out of his pocket. "If you think of anything else, anything at all, don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you," Mrs. Carter replied as she took the card. "Please, find out who did this to our little girl."

It would be too complicated to remind them that he wasn't actually investigating the case, so he just nodded and saw himself out. It was a three hour drive from the Carters' house back to his own, which would be more than enough time to call the Headquarters' MCRT and fill them in on the little bit that he learned on the trip. Before he did that, though, he used the Bluetooth in his—well, the office's—new Charger to call his daughter.

_"Dad, it's early,"_ were the first words she said when the call connected.

"I know," he replied. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

There were a few seconds of silence on the other end. _"Dad, are you working a homicide?"_ she finally asked. He smiled thinly at how easily she had connected those dots; probably came from the experience of dealing with a clingy father every time he looked into the death of a child or young adult.

"Not really," he replied, "but I did have the unfortunate experience of making a notification."

Another few seconds of silence. _"I'm sorry, Dad."_

"It's the job," he said with a sigh.

_"At least you're not actually investigating, right?"_

"Yeah," he said, not knowing if that made it better or worse. At least if he were the one working the case, he wouldn't have anyone to blame but himself if the perp walked away. The MCRT at HQ was supposed to be pretty good, though, so maybe the Carters were still in good hands. "Just wanted to remind you that I love you."

_ "Love you, too, Dad. Are you and Mom still planning on coming down to Galveston for the Fourth?"_

"We'll be there," he assured her. They exchanged a few more pleasantries before they ended the call—probably so Missy could go back to sleep—and after an even quicker exchange with his son, Jenkins called the number Special Agent McGee had given him and filled the MCRT agent in on the few things the Carters had to offer.

He hoped it would be enough to catch whoever did this to their daughter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 7**

* * *

It was a few minutes after noon when Special Agent Tim McGee thanked Special Agent Rick Jenkins for the information he gathered from the Carters before hanging up the phone. He vaguely registered the sound of the elevator doors opening as he logged the call in the case report but didn't think anything of it until he heard Wilson say, "Hey, Harley. You look nice."

"Thanks, Dwayne," Captain Harlan McNamee greeted pleasantly. McGee looked up to see that, indeed, his girlfriend did look nice in a light sundress, her dark curls hanging down her back and her omnipresent Oakley sunglasses on her head. "It's not often I get to play dress up. How's the baby?"

"Not really much of a baby anymore," Wilson said with a smile. "If you're going to be around for the Fourth, we're having a barbeque. You're more than welcome to join us. You can even bring that guy if you want," he said, nodding toward McGee.

"Thanks, Dwayne," McGee said dryly. "Hey," he greeted Harley. "Sorry I didn't call."

"It's okay," she said with a smile. "I came to see if you can escape for lunch after," she looked at the large watch she wore on her wrist, "nine hours at work on a Sunday."

"I—"

"Take her out to lunch, McGee." All heads in the office turned to see Gibbs approach from the back, coffee in hand. "Captain," he greeted McNamee with a nod.

"Gunny," she replied. "You can survive without him for an hour?"

"We'll make do," Gibbs replied.

McGee quickly gathered up his things and retrieved his SIG and shield from his desk drawer before Gibbs could change his mind. "You have anywhere in particular in mind?" he asked Harley as they headed for the elevators.

"Anywhere indoors," she said automatically. "It is really gross out there. And I'm from Georgia." He understood what she was talking about as soon as they left the building; true to his morning predictions while they were still at the crime scene, it had turned into another searingly hot and thickly humid DC summer day. Harley made it only about three steps away from the building before she gathered up her thick hair and secured it in a quick bun at the back of her head. "What?" she asked to McGee's amused gaze. "You saw it down, but it is far too hot out here to keep it there. You'd understand if you had long hair."

"I wasn't going to say anything," he said defensively.

They ended up a Thai place that just opened up close to the Navy Yard, both sighing in relief at the whirl of the air conditioner as they walked through the door. They both gulped down their waters as they arrived to their table before turning to the menus.

"How's the case?" Harley asked as she set aside the menu, already having made her decision. That was one of the things McGee enjoyed about dating her; she wasn't afraid to make a decision, which left very few of those 'I don't know; where do you want to go to dinner?' discussions that ended up taking forever and left both parties frustrated and afraid of picking a bad restaurant.

"It's bad," he replied, looking across the table at her. "One of our junior analysts was killed last night and we can't figure out why."

The expression on Harley's face went from surprise to concern. "Someone you know?" she asked. He shook his head.

"No. She was in the AFRICOM division." Regardless of division, the MCRT field agents never had much interactions with the junior analysts, and only rarely with the supervisors. The antiterrorism teams tended to have closer relationships with their analysts, but there was rarely something that someone who read bits of information from Africa and tried to make sense of them could contribute to solving a homicide or assault.

McGee frowned at the thought of the antiterrorism teams, remembering that Ruiz had said that Carter was looking into Fourth of July activities on the Mall. He pulled out his BlackBerry and made a note to look into what exactly Carter had been looking into. If she was searching for Fourth of July activities because she had come across something that suggested a terrorist attack would be happening, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get the antiterrorist teams involved. Of course, she could have just as easily been searching for Fourth of July activities because she was trying to make plans for that day.

"Tim?" He looked up guiltily to see Harley studying him strangely.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I just had a thought and wanted to make sure I didn't forget it when I got back to the office."

She nodded her understanding before nodding up to the waiter, standing beside their table. "Are you ready to order?"

They put in their orders and drank their newly-refilled waters. "Sorry about abandoning you all day," McGee apologized.

"It's okay," Harley assured him. "I went out for breakfast with Sarah and your mom. I didn't even know your mom was in town," she said with a faux-accusing tone in her voice.

"Neither did I," he said defensively. "Did she say how long they're staying?"

"It's just your mom, actually. Not both of them. You're safe." His jaw tightened momentarily before he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. His strained relationship with his father—'strained' might not be the best word; they hadn't spoken in most of a decade—wasn't exactly the best topic to discuss over lunch.

She took his hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. McGee had told her about his father, an overbearing admiral who never made a secret of his disappointment that his only son didn't go into the family business, just as she had told him about her parents, a father who died in a car accident when she was a toddler, leaving her with a proper southern mother who alternated between wanting her only child to be a doctor and wanting her to marry one.

The fact was lost on neither that if it weren't for the way their parents pressured them, they probably wouldn't be dating. They met for the first time back at Johns Hopkins, when he was a senior biomedical engineering major and the TA for her freshman Intro to BME course. Had he not wanted to get out of the house so badly that he left for college at sixteen, and she not headed north from her native Georgia to put distance between herself and her mother, they wouldn't have met until he was investigating the plane crash that had landed her in Bethesda. And he had been far too exhausted working his first big case as Gibbs' senior field agent to have put much thought into pursuing her if he hadn't remembered her from when she was an eighteen-year-old college freshman who always showed up at least five minutes late to study group thanks to diving practice or NROTC obligations.

Harley had a look in her eyes that said she wanted to talk about something, but McGee gave her the time she needed to broach the topic herself, which she did after they had taken their first few bites of their entrees. "I talked to my detailer on Friday before I drove up," she said.

"Oh?" he asked. With another five months left of her test pilot training, McGee wasn't sure what a conversation with the person who chose her next assignment would reveal. He had been a Navy brat; he knew how little warning there usually was before plans for assignments were made or changed.

"He wants to put me in a non-combat role," she said, making a face. "Not that I didn't see that coming." Before test pilot school, she had been an F-18 pilot, one of the few female Marine aviators who made it into a role that was undeniably combat-based, something she worked very hard for and was very proud of. After one of her squad mates rigged her plane to crash, the event that took his life and prompted NCIS' investigation, the senior aviators who decided her fate decided that a break from the rigors of combat life might be good for her and sent her to train to be a test pilot instead of back to her squad.

"Are there many Marine test pilot billets?" McGee asked.

"Yeah," she said with a nod. "There's also Miramar, but I'm about two grades too junior to be teaching." She glanced down at her food and pushed it with her fork before looking back up at him. "There's going to be a slot at Yuma, and my detailer wants me to fill it," she said, her words coming out in a rush.

"Yuma…" McGee said slowly, letting the word sink in. Arizona seemed impossibly far away, and even though it was still several months away, he already dreaded the distance. He wondered if they would be able to make the relationship work long-distance, especially that long of a distance.

He wasn't quite expecting her next words, though.

"Tim," she said, taking his hand in hers to get his attention. "I'm trying to ask if you want to come with me."


	8. Chapter 8

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter** 8

_A/N: For those of you following _Hitting Hard_ over at Fictionpress, just a reminder that we're dealing with the same universe but different time periods. This is late June 2012; _Hitting_ is in March 2010. So if there are things in this chapter that are throwing you off, just remember, it's the future._

* * *

Tim McGee didn't know how long he had been sitting here, trying to process Harley's words. _I'm trying to ask if you want to come with me_. They just kept replaying in his head, and even though he understood what each word meant, the entire sentence together might as well have been in a foreign language.

Harley was looking at him with a patient and slightly amused expression on her face. "You don't need to give an answer right this second," she informed him. "I won't be moving until after Christmas. I just wanted to give you enough time to get the ball rolling if you decided to join me."

"But," he said, the first thing he could think to say since her question, "what about my job?"

"That's what I'm talking about, as far as getting enough time to get the ball rolling," she explained. "There's an NCIS office at Yuma. You could still do your same job, just in a different place."

"I've been on this team since I became a field agent." He still remembered that moment when he was up at the Navy Yard from Norfolk and Gibbs told him that he was going to become a probationary field agent, still remembered the thoughts and emotions going through his head with those words.

Harley sighed. "Tim, you hate your job." He opened his mouth to argue, but she held up a hand to stop him. "You're really good at it, and I know you love it, but you also hate it. It's Sunday, and not even 1300 yet, and you've already been working more hours than most adults put in on a weekday. I'm not mad at you for leaving this morning, but can you honestly say that getting out of bed at zero-three to be yelled at by Gibbs is how you wanted to spend your day?"

She did have a point. "There would be cases at all hours in Yuma, too," he pointed out.

"But there's no Gibbs," she argued. "Just how many supervisory field agents do you think there are who would pull rank to get a case on a weekend the team is supposed to have off? How many do you think expect his agents to read his mind and do everything he's thinking without saying a single word?" He frowned, prompting her to continue. "You say you've been on this team since the beginning, but Tim, this isn't your team anymore. Two of the three people you worked with are on the other side of the world. You have Dwayne, who's great, but then you have to start from scratch every few weeks to couple of months to try to train a new probationary officer." She sighed. "You're a good agent, Tim. You don't deserve to be treated this way."

She wasn't saying anything that he hadn't thought at least five times in the last nine months, but he had still never considered leaving. It was his job, his livelihood, but it was more than that. He had been working for Gibbs for most of his working life. It was his identity, his inspiration for the novels that provided the bulk of his income.

Of course, if he was working for someone other than Gibbs, he'd probably have more time for writing those novels.

"I'll think about it," he finally said.

"That's all I ask," Harley replied. "You want to go get frozen yogurt?"

He looked at his watch and grimaced. He hadn't realized their conversation had taken so long. "I should get back," he said reluctantly as he signaled for the check.

"Okay," she said, no trace of disappointment in her voice. "I parked at the Navy Yard, so I'll walk back with you." He paid the bill and they were off, back out into the sweltering heat.

Harley stopped him and gave him a kiss right before the doors to the NCIS building. "I'm going to go ahead and make the trek back to Pax River."

"You sure?" he asked. "Nobody'll mind if you come up."

"I really don't feel like signing in again." It was true they didn't make it easy for visitors to enter the building. "I'll give you a call when I get back to the BOQ."

"Okay," he said with a nod. "I really will think about it."

"I know you will," she said with a smile. "Good luck with the case. I love you."

"I love you, too," he replied, getting another smile before she turned and headed for the parking garage.

Yuma, Arizona. He had a lot to think about. And a case to solve.

* * *

Three months before, NCIS Special Agent Kim Cunningham would have considered it the perfect San Diego Sunday morning. The sun was bright in the sky and warming the sand, the wind blowing enough to create perfect surf that just begged one to go out and enjoy it, as her husband currently was. She, on the other hand, was left on the sand with her towel, book—it was a good book, really—and music playing from her iPhone.

Probably for the best. Between her seven mile run earlier in the morning and the fact that she had barely kept a meal down in almost three months, she was pretty sure she didn't have a morning on the surfboard in her.

Damn parasite.

She put her bookmark in the paperback and propped herself up on her elbow, scanning the clusters of surfers until her eyes fell on a head of blond hair over skin that was more pink than it should have been. _Damn idiot_, she thought with a smile. If he didn't have some sort of skin cancer before he was forty, she'd be surprised.

Satisfied that he hadn't managed to drown himself yet that morning, she returned to her previous supine position and opened her book. She had barely read the first sentence of the next chapter when she heard the distinctive ring of her work BlackBerry. She groaned; she didn't have a good feeling about this one. That feeling only intensified when she saw the name on the display. Tim McGee didn't call from his work number on Sundays just to chat.

"You are ruining a perfectly good beach day," she greeted.

_"Gibbs ruined a perfectly good do-nothing day,"_ he replied. _"I'm just paying it forward."_

"Except there's a reason I don't work for Gibbs."

_"Because you live in San Diego?"_ She rolled her eyes at the matter-of-fact response.

"What do you have, and what does it have to do with terrorism?" she asked. She actually crossed her fingers in hopes of finding a way to talk her way out of this one.

_"One of our AFRICOM analysts was murdered on the Mall last night."_ She winced; she hated it when bad things happened to people who sat at desks for a living. They didn't sign up for the same shit the rest of them did.

"That sucks, McGee, but I'm not seeing the link to terrorism." If it had been one of the CENTCOM analysts, she might be a little bit more forgiving, but since Gaddafi found himself dead, there hadn't been much that came out of Africa. Egypt was still a mess, but Egypt was CENTCOM.

_"It's a little weak,"_ he acknowledged. _"The only thing I have is that she was analyzing a cache of emails and her workstation searches were for Fourth of July activities on the Mall."_

Cunningham sighed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blond man on a familiar surfboard beginning to paddle toward shore. Jeff must have seen that she was on the phone and was on his way to scold her. "Talk me through it, McGee."

_"I'm not sure—"_

"You must have called me for a reason."

She heard the exhaustion in his voice with his next words, and felt a little bad for badgering him. She had worked with Gibbs—and McGee—before, and knew what he must be going through. _"She's one of four junior AFRICOM analysts,"_ he began. _"Fluent in French, so she usually does west Africa, but the division doesn't have strict borders. Most of the work comes from Somalia."_

"Al-Shabaab?"

_"I know there's nothing concrete,"_ he said, his voice apologetic. _"But I think it's a possibility."_

She squeezed her eyes closed and took a deep breath to keep from swearing. She opened them to Jeff climb out of the water, his surfboard under his arm and a frown on his face. He really had no right to judge; his pager went off just as often as her BlackBerry. "Okay," she finally said. "I'll look into Al-Shabaab and some other players in the area and see if anything's up. What time is it in Bahrain?" She checked her watch and did the calculations before McGee could respond. "Has Ziva had the baby yet?"

_"Not that anyone's told me. Why?"_

"Because parents of newborns are up at random times anyway, but pregnant women like their sleep." She decided not to share her own personal knowledge of that. "I'll touch base with DiNozzo later today—his tomorrow—and see if he knows anything we don't. I'll be in touch with you in the next few days to share what I've learned."

_"Be in touch?"_ he asked reluctantly. _"Can't you come out here?"_

"For a _murder investigation_ that you aren't sure is related to terrorism?" she demanded. "Christ, McGee. I have my own work to do. I can't be flying around the country on your—or Gibbs'—whim. I run an entire fucking task force that's usually more work than it's worth. We have a status meeting tomorrow at zero-eight. I've been consulted on three separate cases in the last week and have reports to submit. I have a new junior agent to train, since my last one abandoned me a couple of months ago to work the MCRT at Yuma. I—"

_"Yuma?"_ he asked, cutting her off.

"Yeah," she replied. "Yuma, Arizona? Home to MCAS Yuma and a subordinate office of our very own NCIS Marine Corps West region? Perhaps you've heard of it?"

_"Yeah, it's just…nevermind. Okay. Get me what you can, I guess."_

"I will," she promised. "Plan to hear from me tomorrow afternoon. Good luck with the case."

_"Thanks."_

She hung up the phone and looked up to her husband. "So where are you going now?" he asked with a sigh. She understood the sentiment; in the nine months she had lived in San Diego, she spent more time away from her office than in it.

"With any luck, nowhere," she replied as he sat down in the sand. "McGee wanted me to fly out to DC, but I put a stop to that nonsense."

"Good," he said with a satisfied nod. "I am woefully behind on my Kim time."

"Whose fault is that?" she demanded. "_You're_ the one who just returned from a six week cruise of the Caribbean."

"It was work," he said defensively.

"You spent a lot more time climbing mountains and snorkeling than taking care of patients, and don't even try to deny it." As a pediatrics infectious disease fellow, he was supposed to have spent six weeks working on malaria vaccine trials in Kenya before the current security situation required a change of plans. Fortunately for him, the _U.S.N.S Comfort_ had been heading out for a mission in the Americas and invited him to join in for a segment. He took the part with stops in Ecuador, Nicaragua, and Guatemala. At least when she was traveling, she was actually doing work, not hanging out on tropical beaches.

He gave her a grin and a shrug before becoming serious. "Do you need to go into the office?"

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "It's nothing. An AFRICOM analyst was killed in DC, and they made the leap from AFRICOM to Somalia to Al-Shabaab. I would think we would have heard something if Al-Shabaab was planning on traveling to the United States to murder a junior analyst of an agency very few people have heard of." She shrugged. "Sometimes acts of violence really are random. And people in the DC area are fucking insane. Just look at the sniper."

Jeff put on that serious frown he always wore when he was thinking something through. "You remember Alexa Mirza?" She just gave him a look; he always asked about people that way. Of course she remembered the Army preventive medicine physician who was at the hospital near their base when they were deployed to Fallujah in 2006, having spent a few weeks working closely with her on a water treatment facility. She was now stationed at the Army medical research lab in Kenya and had been helping Jeff prepare for his research there, before they declared it too dangerous.

He knew that look and continued without waiting for a response. "She told me the other day that they had to send their kids back to your home state to stay with the grandparents, because Al-Shabaab has been tracking her movements. No threats yet, but they know where she lives, where she works, and when she was flying to Kisumu a few weeks ago to check on the vaccine trial, they had her itinerary and hotel reservations."

"One physician—one high-profile _U.S. Army_ physician—in Kenya is not the same as an analyst in DC," Kim argued. "It's easier to track someone with a diplomatic passport than it is to figure out who works in the analyst branch at NCIS. Trust me; _I_ can barely figure out who works in the analyst branch." She sighed. "I'll do some research from here. I might go in tonight to get a secured call to DiNozzo and chat about things. We'll see how I'm feeling." If the past week was any indication, she'd probably need a nap if she hoped to do anything productive after dinner. With any luck, she'll be able to tell McGee with confidence by the next afternoon that the analyst's murder had nothing to do with terrorism.


	9. Chapter 9

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 9**

_A/N: I've been watching the Olympics... It's not exactly helping the whole 'getting writing done' thing. Go USA! :)_

* * *

Tony DiNozzo ended his morning run by grabbing a mug and filling it with coffee and sugar before walking out to the backyard, where he stood by the pool, sipping the extra hot beverage and watching his wife swim laps. Despite their—mostly his—fears of morning sickness and mood swings and overall crankiness, her pregnancy had been fairly uneventful. Her biggest complaint was figuring out how to work out with a body she was definitely not accustomed to. Running worked well for the first trimester, and then she transitioned to biking and swimming, but by the time thirty weeks came around, even the bike had become too difficult. There was something about the buoyancy of the water that made swimming the default exercise now that she was into her thirty-sixth week.

Ziva had two more laps before she climbed out of the pool. "Good run today?" she asked, taking his coffee and making a face at the sugery taste.

"Not bad," he replied. "Your swim?"

"Not bad," she echoed. "Your son decided he needed his exercise as well. He has been kicking constantly since I got in the pool."

"Why is he _my_ son when he annoys you and _our_ son when he doesn't?" DiNozzo complained.

"You can figure that one out," she said as she patted him on the cheek playfully. She handed back the coffee mug and made her way to the sliding doors leading into the kitchen.

"Tony," she called back a minute later. The doors slid back open to reveal Ziva holding his BlackBerry. "Your phone."

"Now?" he complained. "What time is it?" She gave him a look. "Right. Not important," he muttered as he jogged the few steps over to where she was standing to relieve her of the phone. He glanced at the display before answering. "Special Agent Not-Tomblin," he greeted. "It's early."

_"Not here,"_ Kim Cunningham replied. _"I take it you're not at the office yet?"_

"Not yet," he confirmed. "I just got in from a run. Isn't it still Sunday there?"

_"Give yourself a gold star, DiNozzo,"_ she said dryly. _"I got a call from McGee earlier today. Just be thankful I didn't call you right then."_

"I'll be sure you send you a thank you card once I get to the office. What did the McGoo want?"

_"You're going to love this one,"_ she said in that tone that told him he probably wouldn't. _"I can't really talk about on this line, though, as ridiculous as it probably is. Can you do a VOIP in an hour?"_

"An hour?" he complained.

_"Don't give me that,"_ she said warningly. _"I'm willing to drive into the office for a VOIP on a Sunday evening. I think for that, you can get yourself from your fancy house to your office three miles away in an hour."_

"Touche," he responded. "Okay. Give me an hour. This better be good."

_"Don't worry. It won't be."_

* * *

An hour later, DiNozzo was just opening the door to the field agent office of NCIS Bahrain when he heard the distinctive ringing of the secured phone line. "Perfect timing," he greeted when he picked up the phone.

_"Punctual is my middle name,"_ Kim Cunningham greeted sarcastically. _"I'm actually a little impressed you made it in on time."_

"Just got into the office," he replied. "So, what's this ridiculousness that our little McGoo wanted to rope you into?"

There was a long sigh from the other side of the world. _"One of the junior AFRICOM analysts was killed on the Mall last night,"_ she began. _"I read through the preliminary report that they filed. The cause of death was a broken neck and forensic evidence is, so far, completely lacking, so all they have at this point is police work."_

"Not McGiggle's strong suit," DiNozzo pointed out. The new senior field agent for the Headquarters team—it had been close to a year; maybe 'new' wasn't the best word anymore—much preferred the forensics and computer side of things, probably because that's what he studied in school. DiNozzo, on the other hand, had used 'school' as a way to play basketball. Everything he knew about catching bad guys was on-the-job training. "What do they have so far?"

_"According to her coworkers, Carter—the victim—was dating someone, but all they have at this point is a first name—John—from her mother."_

"Yikes." Mothers were notoriously unreliable during death notifications; even if she was right and that was his name, there had to be half a million Johns, Jons, Jonathans, and any other variation of those names in the greater DC area.

_"No kidding,"_ Kim agreed. _"I'm sure they're working that up, but their focus is on what she was working on at work."_

"I'm guessing Somalia."

_"That's what McGee's thinking,"_ she confirmed. _"She was looking at a cache of emails—McGee was working on getting access to them—and her last search at her workstation was for Fourth of July activities on the Mall."_

"So the question is, was she bored at work and trying to figure out her holiday plans, or was there something in the email about the Fourth," DiNozzo summed up.

_"Exactly. And unless we have a new player in the arena, the only group in Africa with even close to that level of organization or abilities is Al-Shabaab."_

DiNozzo took a deep breath, knowing that Tomblin—Cunningham, he corrected himself; she took her husband's name when they got married a few months ago—wasn't going to like what he was about to say. "We were actually just talking about Al-Shabaab yesterday. Dardik says they've been making a lot more anti-American statements than usual."

_ "Meaning what?"_

"Meaning more than their anti-Kenya statements." She let out a long stream of profanities that he happened to agree with. "I have Gabi and the analysts working on it, and Dardik's still looking into it, too."

_"Any of those anti-American statements have anything to do with NCIS analysts? Or, for that matter, Fourth of July plans?"_

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I'll do some digging at work today and ask Ziva to ask Dardik to look into it." It had been almost a year since he had worked on the same team as his wife, and he was still getting used to the fact that he wasn't anymore. Instead of asking Dardik or Cohen to look into something directly, he had to ask his wife. Because they were her team, not his.

_"So to summarize, you can't rule out that this may be related to terrorism."_

"Sorry."

_"I really don't need this right now," _Tomblin—Cunningham—said with a sigh. _"I don't have the energy to pick up another case right now, especially one on the other side of the country. Maybe I'll get lucky and McGee'll find the boyfriend and he'll admit to killing her."_

"You know it never works that way."

_"Actually, it usually does,"_ she countered. _"Simplist explanation is usually the right one, and deranged boyfriends are a lot simpler than terrorists. Christ. Jeff's gonna be pissed if I have to go to DC."_

"How is the good doctor?"

_"A bit sunburnt,"_ Kim said. _"And he just got back from his own work trip. Six weeks cruising around the Caribbean pretending to take care of sick children."_

"I clearly went into the wrong line of work," DiNozzo commented.

_"Yeah, I know, right? How's Ziva? Still pregnant?"_

"She still was when I left this morning," he replied. "He's still got a month to go. Ziva likes to say that if he takes after me, it'll be longer than that."

Kim chuckled. _"Could be sooner,"_ she said warningly. _"First babies make their own schedules, as Jeff likes to point out to me."_

DiNozzo frowned, putting that statement together with her previous one about not having enough energy. If there was one thing Kim Tomblin Cunningham didn't lack, it was energy. "Are you pregnant?" he finally asked, fully aware that men weren't supposed to ask women that question. At least over the phone he couldn't be accused of calling her fat.

_"Yeah,"_ she said with a sigh. _"Almost twelve weeks. Rumor is morning sickness stops after the first trimester. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that that's true. But hey, don't be spreading that around the agency. I haven't told anybody outside my task force and Agent Henderson on the MCRT, since she's technically my supervisor."_

"People are going to be figuring it out eventually."

_"I know. I'll just deal with it then. Anyway, back to the topic at hand… I couldn't find anything on Al-Shabaab doing anything or planning anything in the States, but to be fair, I was trying to do that search from home. You're going to have the team and the sketchy Mossad trio look into it and see what you can find?"_

"Careful," he said warningly. "You just called my wife sketchy." She laughed into the phone. "Yeah, we'll see what we can find. I'll give you a call after I get home tonight, say around 0700 your time?"

_"That works for me. Call me sooner if you find anything worth, well, calling me about. And tell Ziva I said hi."_

"I will. And congratulations."

_"Thanks. You, too. Good luck in another month or so. You're going to need it."_


	10. Chapter 10

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 10**

_A/N: I know, I know, you want me to write faster. I want me to write faster, too. But unfortunately, I do have a full-time (and fairly demanding) job and am actively working on two different stories. If you need a Sashile fix, check out my stories _Falling on Unyielding Ground_ and _Hitting Hard_ over on Fictionpress. They're both very long and should keep you occupied :)_ _In the meantime, feedback about this story (or any others) is always welcome. __  
_

* * *

It wasn't long after they found out that she was pregnant that Ziva David started doing something very uncharacteristic: bringing her husband lunch. The first time it happened, Tony DiNozzo assumed it was just a one-time random act of kindness. And then he got lunch again the next day. And the next day. At the end of the week, he began to get suspicious. After two weeks, he was tempted to call Mossad and ask if they were planning on transferring her to another station. Now, months later, he just went with it and enjoyed the free food. He wondered if this was Ziva's way of nesting; if the 'nursery' was any indication, it might be the only version of nesting that was going to happen. At this point, the room that would soon have an infant was a couple of boxes of unassembled furniture and some presents from the baby shower Bryn Freiler threw for her a few weeks before.

Remembering Tomblin's comment at that morning about babies making their own schedules, he wondered if maybe he should get around to putting together some furniture. At least a crib.

Aside from the growling of his stomach, he always knew when it was time for lunch when he began to hear footsteps down the staircase behind the wall, footsteps that had been growing increasingly uneven and hesistant over the last several months.

Today, though, the familiar footsteps of his pregnant wife were accompanied by the rushed and intentionally heavy steps that could only belong to someone as obnoxious as David Cohen. "Ziva, you've lost weight," he joked as he opened the door to admit Cohen into the office.

"Very funny," Ziva said sarcastically from behind her operative. "If you do not behave, I will be eating your lunch."

"I'll be good," he promised. "Conference room?"

"We brought enough food for an entire campfire, although I forgot the s'mores," Ziva offered. DiNozzo's eyebrows went up, then narrowed suspiciously. While Ziva had made a habit of having lunch with him, it was rare that anybody else would be invited. To have almost everyone from both teams would be unprecendented.

"You guys found something," he finally said.

"What's that about somebody finding something?" They all turned to the front door of the office, where NCIS Special Agent Gabi Stone was just entering. "I can use some good news. The Horn of Africa analysts are, well, pretty dull, and the sooner I get to stop hanging out with them, the happier I am."

"We're going to discuss it over lunch," DiNozzo said. "Ziva claims she brought enough for everybody, but I've seen Cohen eat. Did you guys bring Dardik?" He looked behind his wife for any sign of the quiet analyst, but it was all clear.

"He said that he is in the middle of something," Ziva explained.

"I do not even think he realizes that we left, with how engrossed he was in the computer," Cohen finished. He shrugged. "More food for me."

"I don't need anything," Special Agent Todd Freiler piped up. "Bryn packed my lunch."

"Seriously?" Gabi asked with a frown. "And that's not enough to make you eat something else?" Bryn Freiler's lack of cooking or baking abilities were a joke throughout the building. Freiler nodded in acquiescence and put his lunch back in the fridge before following them to the conference room next door.

They distributed the food before getting down to business. "Ziva said that you said that your murdered analyst was looking through email," Cohen began.

"Wait, what?" Gabi asked, thoroughly confused. "One of our analysts was murdered? Who? Which division? When? Why am I the only one who doesn't know what's going on?"

"You were already in the Somalia meeting when Freiler came in," DiNozzo explained. "It's not one of _our_ analysts, but one of the junior AFRICOM analysts at Headquarters was murdered in DC Saturday night. There's not much going on in the ways of forensics, so McGee called Tomblin—"

"Cunningham," Gabi interrupted. "Although why I should bother to remember her married name when she can't do the same for me is beyond me."

"She knows that you go by Stone, she just likes to annoy you," DiNozzo reminded her. "McGee called Special Agent Kim _Cunningham_ to ask if she knew anything about African terrorists in DC, she said she didn't but told him that she'd call me, and I told her about our conversation about Al-Shabaab on Sunday."

"What conversation about Al-Shabaab?" Freiler asked.

"You see, this is why you need to be present on Sundays," Cohen said to the NCIS junior agent. "Al-Shabaab has been making more anti-American statements than usual. Since your agency's analyst was studying signal traffic that originated from email at her workstation the day before she died, Ziva asked Dardik to look into similar signals." He took a large bite of his food.

"And?" Gabi prompted.

Cohen chewed thoughtfully, making his case officer roll her eyes. DiNozzo caught her eye and grinned, which prompted another eye roll. Between the men she dealt with at work and the one she dealt with at home, she was constantly surrounded by men who were very good at being childish.

The Mossad operative finally swallowed his food. "We have not found anything that would explain what your analyst was looking for on your National Mall," he said. Now it was DiNozzo's turn to roll his eyes, this time at the dramatics Cohen was so fond of. Not that he minded the food, but if his normal lunch with his wife was interrupted just so Cohen could be dramatic about nothing, he was going to get annoyed.

"That's it?" he asked.

"No," Cohen said calmly. "It is what Dardik found incidently that is interesting. I do not know what it has to do with anything, but he found a few emails that reference a man referred to as 'the engineer'. I do not know if this means that Al-Shabaab has an engineer on retainer or if it is some nickname, but I believe he is either American or has access to American documents."

"Based on what?" DiNozzo asked, sitting up straighter.

"Based on intelligence that I cannot tell you about," Cohen said promptly.

"This means that Dardik did not tell him," Ziva explained.

"Wait," Gabi interjected. "'The engineer'? Are you sure that was what they said?"

"I know how to read Arabic," Cohen reminded her.

"What was the actual word?" He repeated it for the group, making Gabi's eyes widen in excitement.

"That came up in the Somalia meeting!" she exclaimed. "But I didn't think it had anything to do with the States. It was the same context as some chemicals, so the assumption was that they were talking about a chemical engineer."

"Any specific chemicals?" Freiler asked.

"I thought you would ask, so I made sure I wrote it down," Gabi replied as she pulled out a piece of paper decorated with Arabic writing. "Let's see… 'The engineer has a location. We must secure'… I'm not sure on this, because all of my chemistry classes were in French or English," she added warningly. "But if I had to sound it out, ethylene—that's something, right?—and mono…chlorine? Chloride. Sulfur monochloride. Or sulfur dichloride. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Freiler replied. "Unfortunately. Depending on the method of synthesis, either sulfur monochloride or sulfur dichloride can be combined with ethylene to synthesize sulfur mustard. Mustard gas."


	11. Chapter 11

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 11**

* * *

Special Agent McGee was already at his desk Monday morning when Gibbs walked in a few minutes after six with a cup of coffee. "Morning," McGee greeted, getting an unintelligible grunt in reply. "I finally heard back from Victoria Carter, Vanessa Carter's sister, last night," he continued, knowing better than to wait for a more coherent statement or greeting. For a second, he wondered what it would be like to work for someone more...friendly. Then he remembered being Tony's senior field agent, and decided that there were pros and cons to that approach as well. "She said the boyfriend's name was Jake, not John. Jake Clark. She wasn't quite sure what he did for a living, but she said her sister mentioned him being at a hospital, and that she said it like he was working there, not like he was a patient. Um, I'm running a search for Jake Clark in healthcare fields, but it's quite a lot of data to go through. I already found twenty men with either first or middle names of Jake or Jacob and last name Clark in various spellings, and the computer's not even done with DC yet."

"Keep on it," Gibbs ordered. He looked into the bullpen, frowning as he registered the remaining empty desks. He turned back to McGee. "You talk to Tomblin?"

"Gave her a call yesterday," McGee said promptly. "She doesn't think it's related to terrorism, but she said she'll look into it."

Gibbs nodded slightly at that, his eyes moving over to the elevator with a frown on his face. McGee turned in that direction, trying to figure out what his boss was looking at, but the silver doors remained stubbornly closed. "What time do the analysts come in?" he finally asked.

"Uh, usually at eight," McGee replied. "Dr. Mitchell, the AFRICOM lead, said he'll be in at seven to talk to us before getting to work." Gibbs frowned at that, and after as many years working for him as McGee had done, he knew what his boss was thinking: of course the head of the division would be talking to them after one of his analysts was killed, but there were certainly no guarantees that he would be going to work as scheduled after only an hour. If Gibbs had his way, nobody remotely connected to a crime would be going to work until it was solved, to keep them available to talk to the investigators whenever they wanted. Which reminded McGee of another thing. "Uh, if you're planning on talking to the Army doctors who were at the Mall, Dr. Scott said that she and Dr. Gregory would be at Bethesda by 0500 this morning, and that Dr. Lyon would probably be at WRAIR by 0800." Gibbs frowned again. "Walter Reed Army Institute of Research, boss. It's located with the Naval Medical Research Center in Silver Spring."

"Give Wilson a call, have him swing by and talk to them," Gibbs said before turning his attention to his computer, telling McGee that the morning updates, as brief as they had been, were over. Which was fine with McGee; he didn't have much else to offer, and doubted he would until they could find out from Dr. Gregory what exactly Carter had been working on or heard back from Tomblin.

He gave Dwayne a call and passed along Gibbs' instructions, reminding the junior agent that they didn't suspect any of the physicians of anything, but wanted to find out if they had seen anything. Having questioned doctors before, he also cautioned that they might get annoyed and try to get him to leave, but that he should stick around and keep questioning them until he was satisfied about what they had or had not seen. Dwayne said he understood and joked it was too bad that McGee was already at the office; both the hospital in Bethesda and the research institute in Silver Spring were much closer to his apartment than Wilson's house in Falls Church.

It was less than half an hour later before the door to MTAC opened on the floor above them. "Um, Special Agent Gibbs? Special Agent McGee?" one of the technicians called down. "Special Agent DiNozzo from Bahrain is on."

McGee frowned as he looked up at the technician. "In MTAC?" he asked dumbly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gibbs rise from his chair and head for the stairs, and after a few more seconds, he himself rose and followed, even though he couldn't figure out why Tony would be on in MTAC. They didn't have any cases involving the Bahrain office, and as far as he knew, Tony didn't have any cases with any sort of connection to the Headquarters office.

He followed Gibbs—who was violating the 'no drinks in MTAC' rule, again—into the large room. "We're holding for San Diego," the technician informed them.

"San Diego?" McGee echoed. He checked his watch and frowned; if he thought it was early in DC, that had nothing on the west coast.

"_I figured our anti-terrorism field agent extraordinaire would want to be in on this,"_ DiNozzo commented from his desk in Bahrain, where he was sitting in front of a large window that gave a view of the blue afternoon sky half a world away. He shrugged. _"And she was the one who called me on this. Tsk, tsk, McGiggle. You have a case that you think involves Somalia and you don't call the office in charge of Somalia?"_

"Did you find a connection to Somalia?" McGee asked with a frown.

"_I really only feel like explaining it once, McImpatient. I called Kim half an hour ago. She should be on any minute. How's the case coming?"_

"We're working on finding the boyfriend, to try to rule him out as a suspect," McGee said. "It's slow going."

"_Yeah, Kim said you're working off a first name only. John? Good luck with that."_

"We got a little bit more than that, but not much," McGee said just as the right half of the screen went live.

"_What the fuck, DiNozzo?"_ Special Agent Kim Tomblin asked angrily as soon as she appeared, dark circles under her eyes and her black hair in a quick ponytail. _"You woke me up at zero fucking three and told me to get to the office without one fucking word about why? This better be good, or I'll… Well, I don't know what I'll do, until the next time we're in the same place, and then I'm going to be knocking you on your sorry ass."_

"Morning, Tomblin," Gibbs said mildly.

"_Do not get me started, Gibbs,"_ Tomblin said warningly. _"If it weren't for your fucking case and the goddamn assumption that anything and everything is related to terrorism, I would still be doing what every respectable human being is doing at three-thirty in the morning, and that's sleeping."_

"_Actually, there might be something,"_ DiNozzo interjected. _"I'm not saying that Analyst Carter was killed by a militant member of Al-Shabaab—"_

"_Are there any other kinds of members of Al-Shabaab?"_ Tomblin interrupted.

"_Good point. Regardless of who killed Carter, we think Al-Shabaab is up to something."_ He let that sink in for a minute before continuing. _"Between Dardik, Gabi, and our analysts here, we believe that Al-Shabaab has the makings of chemical weapons. Mustard gas, specifically."_

"_Big fucking deal,"_ Tomblin scoffed. _"Anyone with an understanding of chemistry can make chemical weapons. Saddam had them."_

"_You still believe that that's what the Iraq war was about?"_ DiNozzo asked in disbelief. _"Nobody found any WMDs."_

"_I'm talking about the Iran-Iraq War, DiNozzo; perhaps you've heard of it? During the 80's? Approximately 45,000 Iranian casualties due to mustard gas? Does any of this ring a bell?"_

"The sooner you let DiNozzo finish, the sooner you get to go to bed," Gibbs pointed out. Tomblin flushed, but kept her mouth shut.

"_Thanks, Boss,"_ DiNozzo said. _"Here's the best part: Dardik says there's been an increase in anti-American statements made by Al-Shabaab. He also says he found something that suggests that their ranks include an engineer, either American or with access to American documents or systems."_

There were a few seconds of silence as they let this sink in. "Did anyone find anything that suggests that anyone is planning anything on the Mall on the Fourth?" McGee finally asked.

"_Not directly,"_ DiNozzo acknowledged. _"We're still looking and Mossad is still looking."_

"_I don't have anything,"_ Tomblin added. _"Then again, this is all news to me."_

"Agent Tomblin, we're going to need you to come—"

"_No way," _the anti-terrorism specialist interrupted. _"I'm not going to DC. I have too much stuff out here on this coast, stuff that requires my actual physical presence. I will continue to do what I can via VTC to help you with your case, but I'm staying put."_

"This is a murder—"

"_Exactly. It's a murder. A murder of an analyst, yes, but a murder. If it turns out that it is about terrorism or about something going down on the Fourth of July, I will advise, but you don't need me to work up a murder."_

"The director—"

"_Gave me a task force,"_ she interrupted again. _"A task force of my very own, with people to manage, people from a whole bunch of different agencies that don't always get along. Between the FBI, ICE, USBC, ATF, LAPD, and SDPD, we have fourteen cases that we're investigating, three new ones in the last week. Of those fourteen, nine of them are possible activities on the Fourth. So I'm already a little bit busy and will continue to remain so after next Wednesday. If the director seems to think that you're not capable of solving a murder on your own and orders me to leave my own cases behind to help you with yours, I will obey orders, but until then, I will add your case to my list and I will do what I can. DiNozzo, thank you for the further information, I will add it to the file and see if I can get anything further. Please keep me posted on anything else you find. Gibbs, McGee, same for you. Good luck finding the boyfriend. Let me know how that goes. Now, if there's nothing else, I'm going to go lay down in my office for a nap before my task force meets in,"_ she looked at her watch, _"four hours. Have a good morning, gentlemen."_

The right side of the screen went dark once again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 12**

_A/N: I wouldn't say I'm dealing with writer's block, but things are definitely slowing down in my mind. Any suggestions for where you think this going/things you want to see/things you want for Christmas would be welcome. Probably won't be including many of the Christmas wishes, though._

* * *

It wasn't long after Gibbs and McGee ended their call with DiNozzo in MTAC that Dr. David Mitchell, the lead of the AFRICOM division, appeared in the field agent bullpen. A very large man, he appeared slightly out-of-breath from the walk from the elevator to the bullpen as he glanced around the space, his eyes wide enough that the whites were completely visible against his dark skin. "Agents Gibbs and McGee?" he finally managed, his voice thick with an unidentifiable accent.

"That's us," Gibbs replied.

"Dr. David Mitchell," the analyst introduced, offering his hand to shake. McGee accepted; Gibbs didn't bother. "You wanted to talk about Vanessa's work. Is there a place we can go?"

"You have a problem with here?" Gibbs asked, eyebrows raised.

"Well, yes," Dr. Mitchell replied. "What Vanessa was working on was classified top secret. This is not a secured area. We cannot discuss it here. We can go to my office." The analyst area was in the basement, the entire floor a secured classified information facility, complete with a lack of windows and lead-lined walls.

"Or we can stay here," Gibbs countered, his gaze unwavering. Mitchell was either unaware that he should have been intimidated, or just unconcerned, because he showed no signs of budging.

"I will not discuss on-going analysis of intelligence in an unsecured area," he said forcefully. "We can either go to my office or you can remain uninformed."

There was a long and silent staring match between the supervisory field agent and the Africa expert before McGee finally stepped in. "Uh, maybe we should just go downstairs." The words made Gibbs turn that unwavering gaze in his direction, but at the moment, he was a bit beyond caring. He stood from his chair and led the way toward the elevator, not even looking behind him to see if Gibbs and Mitchell were following.

After a tense elevator ride to the basement, Mitchell scanned his ID to gain entrance to the analyst area and led them to the back corner that held the AFRICOM division. "This way," Dr. Mitchell said as he led them past the cubicles where the junior analysts worked and into an office decorated with a map of Tanzania and a Tanzanian flag and brightly colored pictures and statues.

"Vanessa was working on a cache of emails that originated in Kenya," he began as he took a seat behind the desk. "We suspect that the sender of the emails had a connection to Al-Shabaab, but we did not have any hard evidence of this. She was to perform a contact tree to find a connection and query the contents for anything usable."

"And she found evidence of a terrorist attack on the National Mall on the Fourth of July," Gibbs finished impatiently.

"Not exactly," Mitchell countered. "She found a mention of July 4 and extrapolated from there. She had an active imagination. It can be an asset for an analyst, but it could also be a shortcoming."

"So how did she get from there to looking into activities on the Mall?" McGee asked with a frown.

"Mostly wild conjecture," Mitchell said with a sigh. "Vanessa was a good analyst, but she occasionally fell into the trap of all analysts. She wanted to be the one to break something open."

"She was applying to be a field agent," Gibbs commented.

"Yes," Mitchell agreed with a nod. "I have written two separate letters of recommendation for her applications. I felt that she would have made a fine field agent. She was very meticulous and oriented to details. She was only lacking experience. I reminded her to be patient."

"The emails from Kenya," McGee interjected, wondering if it would be possible to get this interview back on track. If it had been on any track to begin with. "What exactly did they say?"

"How is your Swahili?" Mitchell asked in return. McGee frowned.

"Swahili wasn't in Ms. Carter's file," he said slowly.

"She is learning," Mitchell said with a nod. "Was learning," he corrected. "She probably would have been ready to sit for the language exam in another few months."

McGee jotted down that little bit of information as he tried to figure out how to ask the next question. "Why did she suspect that something was being planned for the Mall on the Fourth?"

Mitchell frowned and stood from his chair. "Follow me," he said without explanation. McGee looked over at Gibbs, who showed no interest in getting up, and sighed as he stood to follow Mitchell. He wondered if being so territorial and difficult to work with was part of being a boss, or if it was just part of being a boss in DC. He found himself thinking about Arizona and Harley's question.

Gibbs eventually stood to follow, and the two agents found themselves standing behind Mitchell as he logged into Vanessa Carter's workstation. "This is the program we use for analysis," Mitchell was saying. "She entered the emails in here. This algorithm was developed by the NSA. It looks for common elements, such as—"

"The point, Doc?" Gibbs interrupted.

"Such as any reference to Independence Day, the Fourth of July, and other synonyms for that date," Mitchell continued as if he hadn't heard Gibbs' interruption. "Ninety percent of the time, this is nothing but a mention of a date that has nothing to do with the United States, but it is this that got Vanessa's attention in the first place." He pressed a few buttons, causing a phrase to be highlighted. Although the letters looked familiar, the words meant nothing to McGee, almost as if they were in Swahili. Which they probably were. "This is 'July Fourth' in Swahili." That answered that question. "I reminded her that dates are usually nothing but dates, but she was not satisfied."

"Still not hearing why she went to the Mall," Gibbs said. McGee just rolled his eyes at his boss' impatience.

Again, Mitchell kept talking as if Gibbs weren't, well, as annoying as he was. "These are the five emails with mention of July Fourth," he said, the five phrases now highlighted on the screen. "Using a cryptographic program that incorporates known associates of senders and recipients of emails, she got the phrases 'Washington, DC', 'park', and 'monuments'."

"That's it?" McGee asked with a frown.

"That is how intelligence analysis works," Mitchell said with a shrug. "It is often non-specific. Determining how non-specific is specific enough requires experience in analysis."

"Experience that Vanessa Carter didn't have," McGee commented.

"So why was she out on the Mall on her own?" Gibbs asked.

"She did not believe me when I said that it was likely nothing," Mitchell replied, sounding sad about that fact. "She had recently received another rejection for a position at your Federal Law Enforcement Training Center and was eager to prove herself."

"Eager enough to investigate what she thought was a legitimate threat alone?"

"Yes," Mitchell replied bluntly. "She was that eager."

"The Somalia analysts in Bahrain found evidence that Al-Shabaab has chemical weapons," McGee said thoughtfully, "and an engineer who might be American. How does that fit into what Ms. Carter found?"

Mitchell frowned thoughtfully as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the desk. "I would need to see the intelligence that led to those conclusions," he finally said. "Our email cache was only indirectly related to Al-Shabaab. That is why Vanessa was given it, to see if she could find a connection. The content was not as important as the traffic between people. Even if the intelligence you speak of from Bahrain is sound, which I would have to see to assess, there is no guarantee that it is related to what Vanessa had found."

"I thought that's what intelligence analysis was," McGee replied. "Non-specific? No guarantees?"

Dr. Mitchell frowned at that, as if trying to decide if he was being mocked or not. He wasn't, but McGee could understand the confusion; he got a little acerbic when tired, and he definitely didn't sleep well or long the night before. "It also requires careful analysis of all available pieces of information," the AFRICOM lead finally replied. "Not second-hand information."

"Do you think you could send Ms. Carter's analysis to Bahrain, see if they could make it fit into what they have?" McGee figured it would be easier to do it that way than to try to explain to Dr. Mitchell how and why they had fresh intelligence from Mossad.

"I can do that, but I still do not see what that has to do with her murder," Dr. Mitchell replied. "If you ask me, that was probably just a random act of violence."

"We didn't ask you," Gibbs said bluntly. "Analysis isn't the only thing that takes experience. And when it comes to solving crimes, you have none."


	13. Chapter 13

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 13**

_A/N: Mostly fluff, but since it's Tiva fluff, I figured there wouldn't be too many people who would mind. Enjoy._

* * *

Tony DiNozzo walked through the door to his house a few minutes after 1800 and immediately took a deep breath to see if he could figure out what Ziva had made for dinner, and smelled… Nothing.

Which wasn't really a surprise. The heat index was still over 115 degrees and she was carrying a miniature person around. Not exactly ideal conditions for wanting to cook. He wondered if she'd let him order pizza.

"Hey," he called out as he toed off his shoes in the entry way.

"Hey," Ziva called back. He followed the sound of her voice to the kitchen, where he found her mixing the dressing for a salad. He felt his face fall at the realization that he wouldn't be getting pizza. Not as if there was much of a chance of that happening, really. "Do not give me that look," Ziva scoffed. "It is hot outside and salad is good for you. And it has bacon in it."

"Real bacon?" She gave a knowing smirk and shrugged a shoulder, which made him grin. Although she had never been too particular about following all the rules that went with eating kosher, she did tend to try to avoid pork. She never told him why, and he never asked about it, nor did he ask why all of those rules went out the window when she became pregnant. He figured there were better things to deal with than questioning a pregnant, Mossad-trained assassin on her eating habits.

"How was your videoconference?" she asked as she removed two bowls from the cabinet and began scooping salad into them.

"Tomblin was not a happy camper," he replied as he grabbed two glasses and filled them with ice before grabbing the lemonade from the fridge. With a pregnant wife, Mormon junior field agent, and Buckeye games coming in in the early morning hours, his alcohol consumption had decreased significantly since moving to Bahrain. It wasn't that he was avoiding it out of solidarity with Ziva; he still grabbed the occasional beer during weekend barbecues and the like, but there were no post-case celebrations at the bar and no bottles of wine with dinner. And that was fine with him.

"Cunningham," Ziva corrected as she handed him his bowl. He made a face.

"I don't know if I can get used to that," he admitted. "She's pregnant, by the way."

"That did not take long." DiNozzo raised his eyebrows at that; they were already four weeks pregnant when they got married, although they didn't realize it for another two weeks. Ziva just shrugged. "When is she due?"

"She said she's almost twelve weeks pregnant, so that would be…" His voice trailed off as he tried to do the math, but Ziva was faster.

"Around Christmas," she informed him.

"That's unfortunate for the kid," he said, getting a questioning look from Ziva. He shrugged. "Half as many presents," he explained. "She said she's keeping it under wraps at work for now."

"People will find out eventually," Ziva commented. "It is not easy to hide an abnormally large belly."

"And yet you do it so well," he joked. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Good salad," he said, changing the subject. It was, actually, as far as salads went, with enough chicken and bacon and cheese to almost placate him, but it still wasn't a pepperoni pizza. Not as if he had found a good pizza place in Manama yet. At least, a good pizza place with pepperoni. Just about the only place where he could order pork products was on base, and the pizza joint in the NEX left a lot to be desired.

"Thank you," Ziva replied. "Did you learn anything new on the case?"

"Not really," he admitted. "McGiggle's still looking for the boyfriend. Gibbs wants Tomblin—Cunningham—to go to DC to help work the case, but she's fighting it. McGee said that they're about to talk to the head of the AFRICOM desk, see if they can get a better handle on what drove Carter to the Mall in the first place." He speared a piece of chicken with his fork. "Any luck on Al-Shabaab?" When she didn't say anything for a few seconds, he looked up, a frown on his face. "You have someone inside, don't you?"

"You know that I cannot tell you where my operatives are."

"I'm just confused about when you went from managing ninja assassins to managing spooks."

"I do work for an intelligence agency, Tony."

"Yeah, but… Never mind." This wasn't the time for getting into an argument about her vague job descriptions or her even vaguer recounting of what she did. "Did Dardik dig up anything having to do with the Mall? Or DC in general?"

"He is still looking." She checked her watch and shrugged. "Actually, he is probably playing video games by now, but we will find out tomorrow."

DiNozzo sighed as he took another bite the salad. "It's frustrating," he said after swallowing. "There's a murder case going on, and I feel like I know half the information."

"It is not your case," Ziva reminded him.

"That's frustrating, too," he admitted. "It seems all I do anymore is looking at terrorism reports. There's none of the running down a lead, working up a suspect, good old detective work anymore."

Ziva looked at him, aghast. "You had a murder two weeks ago," she reminded him, "and you complained the entire time how much work it was!"

"I'm a complicated man, Ziva," he replied indignantly.

"Not that complicated," she replied. He rolled his eyes and took their empty salad bowls to the sink.

"I'm going to put some of the baby furniture together," he said as he rinsed the dishes. Ziva frowned at him.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

She shrugged. "I just figured the baby would be at least six months old before you finally got around to putting anything together."

"Ha, ha," he said dryly. "So what should I start with? Babies need cribs, right?"

"I am still trying to figure out why you suddenly decided that this needs to happen tonight."

"Something Tomblin said this morning."

"Cunningham."

"Whatever. Where's that crib, again?"

"Same place as all of the baby furniture. In the nursery. I think you should probably start with the bassinet, though."

He frowned at her. "Bassinet?" he finally asked. "What's that?"

"Where the baby will be sleeping for the first few months," she said with a sigh, standing from her chair. "Come on. I will show you. You should probably assemble it in our room, though."

"Our room? Why?"

"Because that is where he will be sleeping until he is ready for the crib," she explained.

"How are we going to get any sleep with a baby in our room?"

She frowned at him before just shaking her head and pointing out the right box, following him to the master bedroom as he carried it.

He was halfway through reading the assembly instructions when he said out of the blue, "Daniel."

Very well accustomed to this game after how many rounds they had played it over the last few months, she replied with, "Benjamin."

"Benjamin?" he asked, looking up at her with a frown on his face. "Where'd that come from?" They both agreed that family names were out, as neither had any male family members they'd care for immortalizing, which left them with the impossible task of agreeing on one that they liked that had no history behind it. He always lead with Daniel, but the response had been different each time.

"Anything to get you away from Daniel," Ziva replied.

"What's wrong with Daniel?" he asked.

"You only like it because you want to call him Danny DiNozzo."

"I'm not seeing the problem with that." She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Joseph."

"Joe DiNozzo?"

"You're right. That's awful."

"Gabriel."

"He'll get beat up on daily basis."

"Not if he knows how to fight." There was a glint to her eyes as she said that that made him a little uneasy.

"Regardless of your plans to turn him into a miniature ninja, Gabriel's out. Ryan."

She appeared to think about that one for a second before shaking her head slightly. "Nathan."

"Salvatore."

"We agreed that Italian names would make him sound like a member of the mob."

"Maybe I don't see the problem with that," he commented. "Can you hand me the screwdriver?"

"Phillips or flathead?"

"Phillips. Hey, Phillip."

"We are not naming our son after a screwdriver."

"At this rate, we won't be naming our son anything."

"This would be much easier if either of us ever thought we would be having children to name."

"We could always name him after Gibbs."

"If you thought Gabriel was bad, imagine how many people will want to beat him if his name is Leroy or Jethro."

"Is it always this hard to figure out what to call a kid?" DiNozzo asked with a sigh. "Maybe we should just ask the Cunninghams what they're planning on naming their kid. Since ours will be born first, we can just steal their ideas."

"She would probably want to name a boy after her grandfather," Ziva replied, "and Jackson is also Gibbs' father's name."

"Yeah, that would be weird," DiNozzo agreed. "Wait. Isn't her other grandfather's name Daniel?" She just gave him a look, earning her a grin. "Does this look like this piece to you?" He held up the wooden part and the instructions.

"No," Ziva declared after a few seconds. "This is what you're looking for." She picked up the right piece and handed it over. "If Al-Shabaab turns out to be behind your analyst's murder, Director Vance is going to want someone to go down to Somalia to investigate."

"I'll send…" His voice trailed off as he thought about that. "Oh." Freiler's Arabic wasn't that great, and Saudi—or even half-Saudi, half-French, American-born—women didn't do too well in Islamic countries. Which left DiNozzo to lead a team. "Well, let's just keep our fingers crossed that the McGoo finds the boyfriend and he confesses to breaking his girlfriend's neck on the National Mall."

He normally didn't mind fieldwork, even fieldwork that took him to Africa. What he did mind was fieldwork that took him away from his wife when she was less than a month due from having a baby.


	14. Chapter 14

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 14**

* * *

McGee was back at his desk, checking on the computer search for Jake Clark when Dwayne Wilson entered the bullpen. "I don't know how you deal with that traffic every day," he commented as he dropped his bag beside his desk. "Why do you live all the way out there, anyway?"

"It's a long story. I was actually thinking of getting a place in Arlington or Alexandria to be less of a commute to Pax River, but—" He cut himself off, not wanting to get into the whole should-he-move-or-should-he-not story.

"Does Harley know where she's going to be going after she's done training?" Wilson asked.

"Did you get anything from the doctors?" McGee asked, changing the subject.

"Not much," Wilson replied, removing his SIG and locking it in his drawer. "The surgeons, Drs. Scott and Gregory, seemed pretty busy. They said they didn't see anything, just the usual people around the Mall. They did go to the WWII Memorial, sat there for a while before going on to the Lincoln Memorial and back to the car and going home. Dr. Lyon, at WRAIR, was a little more informative, once I managed to track her down. I didn't realize NRMC—or WRAIR, I guess—was more than that one building. She was on the other side of the base, in one of the smaller buildings. By the time I found her, though, she had a lot to say. Just not much relevant. She repeated what her friends had said, that they parked by the Mall, walked up to Adams Morgan for dinner and drinks, and walked back down to the Mall. They were parked between the Washington and the WWII Memorial, as we knew already, so they went straight to the WWII Memorial and sat, she said for maybe half an hour, before they decided to go to the Lincoln Memorial. They walked on the opposite side of the Reflecting Pool as Carter, and with all the construction—"

"There's no way they could have seen anything," McGee finished. "Even a body."

"Timeline doesn't really fit for seeing much else," Wilson informed him, glancing at his notes. "They got to the Mall around 1800, and then it's a two and a half mile walk to Adams Morgan—let's say 45 minutes, so we're at 1845. Then they stopped at Black Squirrel for beer before going to the Ethiopian restaurant for dinner. By the time they're done eating, it's probably 2100, right in the middle of Ducky's estimate for time of death. With another 45 minutes to walk back to the Mall, we're at 2145, and then half an hour sitting brings us to 2215. After that, they walked away from the crime scene and didn't make it back to the car until midnight. Of the entire four hour window that Ducky's gave us, they were only around near the end, for the half an hour they sat at the Memorial. With the lights shining all around them, they wouldn't have been able to see anything outside the Memorial."

"Including Carter being killed."

"Right," Wilson agreed. "As witnesses go, they were fairly useless."

McGee sighed. It had been a long shot to begin with, but most of this case seemed to be made of long shots. He stood from his chair. "I'm going to go down and see Abby," he said. "Maybe she's having more luck than we are."

* * *

Abby Sciuto liked the music in her lab to be loud enough to allow her to hear everything in the music but not loud enough to drown out her thoughts as she worked. It was a fine balance, at least to her. To everyone else, it was just really loud music.

The volume came down significantly, which really only meant one thing. "Good morning, McGee," she said cheerfully as she heard her office door open, not even bothering to turn to see if that's who it was. He was pretty much the only person in the building daring enough to turn down her music without permission. Well, Gibbs would be, too, if Gibbs would bother himself to learn how to turn down the music of her new stereo.

"Any luck with the case?" he asked as he settled himself into his usual barstool. It was a pattern with senior field agents, really—they spent a lot of time in Abby's office under the auspices of catching up on the finer points of the cases, but really just escaping Gibbs and trying to get a fresh perspective on things. McGee did it, Tony had done it, even Stan was once a semi-permanent fixture in the lab.

As always, thoughts of Stan gave Abby a wave of sadness, which she allowed for a few seconds before she turned her attention back to McGee. "I have good news and bad news," she said cheerfully.

"Uh, I'll take the good news."

"I figured you would. We got DNA from our victim. From the collar of her shirt. Two samples, one was hers, and the other was most definitely not hers."

"That's great!" McGee said enthusiastically, the black cloud that had been hanging over his head taking a temporary vacation. "What's the bad news?"

"There's no match," she replied. "If you get a suspect, I can try to match it, but there's nothing in the database. No convictions or prior cases."

"Oh." His face fell back to where it had been since early the previous morning, that look of despair and exhaustion and just a hint of panic. "So we still have... Nothing."

"We have something, if you can find a suspect," she reminded him. "How's the search for the boyfriend?"

"Slow," he said with a sigh. "Do you know how many Jake Clarks there are in the healthcare field in the greater DC area?"

"I'm guessing more than a few."

"Quite a few more than a few," he confirmed.

"And still no witnesses." It was more of a statement than a question; if he had witnesses, he'd be interviewing them, not moping in here lab.

"Nope," he confirmed with a sigh. "Tomblin and Tony are looking into the terrorism angle, which may be looking more promising, but it still isn't giving us a suspect. And is it just me, or is Gibbs more... Gibbs, than usual?"

Abby looked around her lab as if to confirm that it was empty, wondering as soon as she did it why she bothered; of course it was empty. It was her lab and she knew when people came in, and nobody had since McGee. And nobody before that. "Now, you didn't hear this from me," she ordered, getting two raised eyebrows from McGee in response. "Gracy might be getting transferred to Germany."

"What?" McGee asked, his eyes now wide and focused on Abby. "Are you sure? Who told you?"

"Nobody's sure," she said impatiently. "I bet the Army isn't even sure, but that's what Jimmy said. She's been working with him on applications to go back to medical school and said it came up. She _is_ getting promoted to lieutenant colonel in December. She can't stay at her current job forever." Major Sonja Gracy, MD, was an Army pathologist and deputy director of the Armed Forces Medical Examiner's System, a position she had held since returning from Hawaii a few years before. She was also sleeping with Gibbs, another position she had held since returning from Hawaii.

"Wait, Jimmy's going back to medical school?" McGee asked.

"Focus, McGoo," Abby ordered. "We'll discuss the autopsy gremlin in a minute. We're discussing Gracy, remember? And Gibbs. Speaking of Gibbs, he had a big birthday coming up." McGee looked at her blankly. "Fifty-five, Tim! And you know what happens when field agents turn fifty-five."

"They're pulled from the field," McGee replied. "But... Vance wouldn't..."

"He's not going to change the rules just for Gibbs, McGee."

"Oh." McGee had that look in his eye, the 'the wheel is spinning too quickly for the hamster to keep up' look, and Abby knew she had to wait to let him work things out in his head. "So you really think he'll be pulled from the field."

"Mm-hmm."

"Oh."

"McGee." He looked over at her. "You look... Puzzled. Bewildered. Mystified."

"It's just..." Now it was his turn to look around to make sure nobody was listening, and he sighed deeply. "Harley's probably going to be going to Yuma in January," he said, the words coming out in a rush."

"Oh, Timmy!" Abby exclaimed in sympathy, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I'm sorry, I know you really like her..."

"She asked me to go with her." The words startled Abby to the point that she released her arms and stepped back in surprise, almost as if they had physically shocked her. While whatever ship that was between them had sailed years ago, Abby never considered an NCIS that didn't have Special Agent Timothy McGee. She hadn't thought she could imagine an NCIS that didn't have Tony DiNozzo, either, but this was somehow different. This was McGee; quiet, unsure McGee who was picked on by his coworkers and made money writing books about it.

No, that wasn't who he was, not anymore. She knew she wouldn't be able to pinpoint when the change happened, when he went from timid Tim to the man who was currently sitting in front of her, who stood up for himself and dealt with the full brunt of Gibbs' unrealistic expectations, but somewhere along the way, that transformation took place. It was before Tony and Ziva left, really, but that move nine months before solidified the changes that were already in the process of happening. He still had the books, sure, but the taunting was definitely a thing of the past. As was the inability to get a date with a woman who wasn't full-on crazy, although being a USMC fighter pilot sure put Captain Harlan McNamee close to that category. "What are you going to do?" Abby finally asked, her voice quiet, actually afraid of what his answer was going to be.

"I'm still thinking about it," McGee replied. "There's still a lot of time before she graduates from the course. I just don't know what to do."

Abby wanted to tell him what to do, tell him that the office just wouldn't be the same without him, remind him of how good he was at his job, but that wasn't really fair, and if there was one thing McGee deserved, it was fairness. "We could make a list of pros and cons—"

"That's all I've been doing since Harley told me she was probably moving," McGee interrupted with a sigh. He gave her a half smile. "I guess it's not supposed to be easy, is it?"

"Sure it is," Abby replied. "You just need to figure out if it'll be easier to find another job or another girlfriend." She gave him a sad smile. "And no offense, Tim, but I've met some of the girls you've dated. You might want to consider holding on to the one you've got."


	15. Chapter 15

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 15**

* * *

Kasey Khalid gave a nod of satisfaction at the number on his computer screen, entering it into the final plans before electronically signing the document. He leaned back in his chair, enjoying the moment of calm that came at the end of finishing another project.

"Kasey?" He sat up quickly enough that his chair rolled back a couple of inches, forcing him to grab onto his desk for support. He looked up to see his boss looking back at him with an amused expression on his face. "How's the Smithsonian project coming?"

"I just finished the revisions," Khalid replied, gesturing at his computer.

"Shoot it over to me via electrons," the project lead ordered. "You about to take off for lunch?"

Khalid glanced at the Brutus clock that had adorned his desk since he graduated from The Ohio State University and blinked in surprise at the time. He had gotten so wrapped up in finishing the project that he had completely lost track of time. "I guess I am," he replied. "Have you eaten yet?"

"You want to see which food trucks are parked outside?" was all the reply he needed.

Forty-five minutes later, with bellies pleasantly full of Indian food, they returned to the office to the usual team meetings before Khalid got to return to work, seeing the next round of revisions waiting for him on the Smithsonian project. Not for the first time, he wished his firm had a few fewer layers of managers who all thought they had to contribute something to every project, even though they didn't understand it the way he did. It wasn't as if he had much of a choice, though; the pay was good—really good, with this economy—with full medical and dental benefits. With a wife, two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, and newborn twins, he didn't have the luxury of turning that down for a job with a smaller engineering firm and fewer layers of red tape. With a sigh, he leaned in and got to work on the new project parameters on the renovations of the Smithsonian Castle.

He again lost track of time in the numbers, reaching absently for his phone when it rang. "This is Kasey Khalid," he greeted, his eyes still on his monitor.

_"Mr. Khalid."_ He straightened unconsciously at the sound of the voice on the other end of the phone, the same voice that had been haunting him since that fateful night at the Arlington Ri Ra almost three years before, the voice of the man who claimed to have information about his father's activities during the Somali Civil War.

The man Khalid had been trading engineering plans to some of DCs greatest buildings and monuments for his silence on the matter.

"Yes," he replied, clearing his throat slightly. "This is Khalid." He grimaced as he registered that he just introduced himself twice.

If the man noticed, he didn't care. _"We must meet,"_ he said, unamused. _"The usual place and time. Tonight."_

"Tonight?" Khalid echoed with a frown. He glanced at his clock and frowned, mentally calculating the amount of time it would take to get to the usual DC coffee shop where they met in rush hour. He could take the Metro, which would eliminate the traffic situation, but then he'd have to double back to the office to get his car before going home. He'd have to call Cora and apologize for working late, but that was nothing new.

But that wasn't actually the big question. "I don't have anything new," he said, now confused. "I don't know what I have to offer."

"_Meet, and we will discuss it."_

The line went dead.

Khalid sighed as he returned the phone to the cradle. He knew the request to meet wasn't a request at all, but that didn't mean he knew what it was about. Usually when there was a request to meet, it was for plans to something—the renovations to the Reflecting Pool, the renovations to the Smithsonian Castle, a new FBI building down at Quantico, a new lab at the NIH—but this time, he had nothing to offer. He had been the primary professional engineer on the Smithsonian Castle for the last three months and hadn't been working on much else.

He didn't know what the man wanted from him, and that was scarier than anything he had ever done before. But he knew what he had to do.

He saved his changes to the Smithsonian project before logging out of his computer and packing up his stuff, already calling Cora on his cell phone as he headed for the door. "Hey," he greeted when she picked up after the third ring. "I'm going to be running late tonight."

_"Again?"_ she asked. He grimaced, hating that he had to lie to her about this. Or about anything.

"I'm sorry," he said honestly. At least he didn't have to lie to her about that. "Three levels of middle management decided that they suddenly needed to have an opinion on the Smithsonian Castle and all saved it for tonight. I need to review them all and make changes before tomorrow."

She sighed on the other end and he heard one of the babies crying in the background, and he winced again. Her maternity leave was coming to an end, and she had started talking about not going back to work. In all honesty, they would probably come out on top if she didn't, moneywise. Sure, they would lose her pay as a nurse practitioner, but what they would have to spend on day care for a toddler and two infants would be no small matter.

But that wasn't the point. She would go crazy if she didn't get to have adult conversations during the day; she already was, and he was usually the first respite she had from spending an entire day with three children under three, and instead of giving her that respite, he was going to be sharing sensitive engineering plans with men he was pretty sure were terrorists. "I will be home as soon as I can," he promised.

_"Okay,"_ she said with an acquiescing sigh. _"I will see you when you get home. I will try to keep your dinner warm."_

"I love you."

_"I love you, too."_

She hung up before he did, leaving him with the beeping of a disconnected call and a sinking heart. He sighed again and squared his shoulders, preparing himself for what was about to come.

It was six stops on the blue Metro line from his office at Crystal City to Farragut West, and then three blocks of walking in the searing DC heat in his suit to the meeting place, where he found his contact already waiting, a steaming mug of tea in front of him and the newspaper open in his hands. Khalid sat and waited without speaking, like he was supposed to.

Another five minutes later, the man finally folded the newspaper, removed the tea bag from the cup, stirred the tea, and took a sip. "Thank you for coming," he said as he returned the cup to the saucer. "We must discuss the Reflecting Pool project."

"The Reflecting Pool?" Khalid had forwarded those engineering plans a few years before, before the destruction of the original pool had even begun. "What about it?"

"We are interested in the plumbing."

"The circulation pipes?"

"Yes. Tell me, is it in any way connected to the fountain at the memorial to the Second World War?"

Khalid frowned; all of that was in the original plans he had submitted. "Yes," he said slowly. "The intake pipes from the municipal water source are connected."

The man nodded. "Thank you," he said simply.

"Wait," Khalid said as the man began to stand. "That's it? You brought me here to ask me a question you could have answered by looking at the information I already gave you?" He raised his hands in exasperation, the first time he had ever done that. "Why?"

The man arched his eyebrows but didn't return to his seat. "Come with me," he ordered. It was said in the same tone that he said everything, but Khalid knew an order when he heard one. He sighed and stood to follow the man out of the coffee shop.

He was patient, waiting for the man to speak. "The truth, Mr. Khalid, is that we are planning an attack on this National Mall on July Fourth," he said bluntly. Khalid felt his breath catch in his throat, his heart skip a beat in his chest. _This is what the engineering plans were for?_ He had known it couldn't be anything good—who wanted engineering plans for government buildings and monuments for benign reasons?—but he had never allowed himself to imagine this. "We are planning on phosgene and sulfur mustard in the fountain at the monument to the Second World War. Simple, yes, as well as crude, but effective."

"But… You cannot…" He couldn't even finish the sentence, but it wasn't because he couldn't find the words.

It was because he had a knife thrust into the back of his neck.


	16. Chapter 16

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 16**

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Kim Cunningham was usually at her desk a few minutes after 0700, because that's when Dr. Jeff Cunningham had to be at work. With the hospital only a few miles away from Naval Base San Diego, where NCIS-San Diego was located, it was rare that the two didn't drive in together.

So when Special Agent Kazim Gardezi saw the clock turn 0900 without sight of his boss, he began making phone calls. He started with Agent Cunningham's BlackBerry, which, fairly unsurprisingly, went straight to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message, because he knew she never listened to them. The next call was to her personal cell phone, which rang once before also going to voicemail. He sighed and went to his last resort.

_"Hey, Kazi,"_ Jeff Cunningham greeted. _"She not there yet?"_

"No, sir," Gardezi replied. Dr. Cunningham sighed.

_"I'm really not surprised,"_ he said, sounding almost apologetic. _"She was really sick last night. She had just fallen back asleep when I left to run in to work at 0530."_

"Did she say anything about skipping work?"

_"I'm pretty sure all she was talking about last night was how she was going to kill me."_ Gardezi shrugged a shoulder; that sounded like his old company commander and current team leader. He was still trying to adjust to the idea of her being pregnant. He didn't think there was anything that could slow her down, but apparently a fetus could. _"Hey, are you guys going to be around for the Fourth?"_

"My wife is going to be having a barbeque. I'm hoping I we won't be working, so I can actually go. I already invited the skip, but in case she didn't pass it along to you, you guys are welcome to join us. It's just going to be a couple of families from our mosque and some people from the neighborhood."

_"That sounds better than the pediatrics picnic. Put us down for a couple of apple pies."_

"Shouldn't you run that by your wife before volunteering her to bake?"

_"Good point. Put us down for something. If she's feeling up to it, it'll be apple pies. If not, I'm sure there's something I can manage. Nothing with apple—she's a bit territorial about that."_

"Territorial? The skip?" Gardezi asked dryly. Dr. Cunningham chuckled as Gardezi looked up to see his former commander approaching, appearing to be deep in conversation and not too happy about it. "Speaking of the skip, she just walked in."

_"Good deal. Remind her to eat something."_

"Sir, you know I'm not going to do that." He ended the call with the infectious disease pediatrician as the head of the anti-terrorism task force approached, also on the tail end of her call.

"Yes, sir, I'll get back to you by close of business today," she said before removing her BlackBerry from her pocket and ending the call. She looked up at Gardezi and sighed. "Sorry I'm late. How many people called to bitch about the fact that I wasn't here?"

"Only three. And two of them were from LAPD."

"Good. No need to call them back." Although they got along with the LAPD member of their task force, there was really no love lost for the rest of that department.

"You feeling okay, Cap'n?"

Cunningham looked up at her junior field agent and rolled her eyes. "You called Jeff to ask why I wasn't here yet, didn't you?" It was more a statement than an accusation, and to be honest, she didn't care. Too much. She had personally recruited Gardezi, one of her former sergeants from when she was an MP company commander at Camp Pendleton and Fallujah, after he contacted her to ask for a letter of recommendation to make detective with the Detroit PD, a request that just happened to come three days after her previous junior field agent announced that she was moving to Yuma to be on their MCRT. She had called him right away and asked if he'd be interested in moving back to the San Diego area to work in anti-terrorism as a federal agent. He said he had to run it by his wife, but the next day, he called and said he was in, and now he was the only person she worked with who was allowed to call her 'Captain' or 'Skipper' or any derivative of either, because he was the only person she worked with who had ever called her either honestly. Even Jeff got an eyeroll or a smack to the head whenever he tried calling her by her old rank.

She sighed as she absently wrapped her ponytail around her hand. "I don't understand how Layla survived three pregnancies," she finally said. "This one might kill me. I was up since zero-two this morning, alternating between taking Zofran and puking it up. Finally, Jeff gave it to me IV, which just knocked me out, but at least I stopped throwing up."

"You're almost out of your first trimester," he said with a hopeful tone.

"Is that when Layla stopped having morning sickness?"

Now he looked sheepish. "She never really had morning sickness," he said slowly. She glowered at him.

"I hate both you and your wife," she informed him. She had lost three pounds from her pre-pregnancy weight, and definitely hadn't had three pounds to lose. "What did the LAPD want? And who was the other call from?"

"Other call was from Border Control. They wanted clarification on the fireworks guidance. I think they were satisfied with my answer. LAPD wanted to know what we're going to do about the Fourth of July threat. They were _not_ satisfied with my answer and wanted to talk to you."

"I thought we already gave Jim an answer he could give to his people."

"Guess not."

She swore under her breath. "Fine. I'll give them a call later today and tell them what unreasonable jackasses they're being. What else have you got?"

"You forgot to tell your husband about my barbeque."

Cunningham rolled her eyes as she turned and walked toward her cubicle. "I think I liked it better when you wanted nothing to do with medical," she said as she walked away.

"I still don't!" he called out after her.

"Then stop calling Jeff when I'm late for work!"

* * *

After returning the LAPD's phone calls as politely as possible, Kim Cunningham got back to the rest of her work, which mostly consisted of making and answering phone calls, responding to emails, and going to more meetings than any sane person would ever want to.

It was in the middle of one of those meetings that her BlackBerry vibrated silently on her belt. Although not an uncommon occurrence, Cunningham still made a practice of checking to see if anyone worth answering. She frowned as she studied the number; it wasn't one she had saved in her phone book, but the 202 area code told her it was from DC. NCIS agents at headquarters all had the same next three numbers on both office numbers and BlackBerries, so it wasn't one of her comrades, which made her curious enough that she accepted the call and left the meeting.

Or maybe it was just a really boring meeting.

"NCIS Special Agent Cunningham," she greeted once she closed the door behind her.

_"Hi, this is Officer Stu Hawley, Metro PD. Uh, is this the Special Agent Cunningham who filed an anti-terrorism watch regarding Al-Shabaab yesterday?"_

"Yes," she said slowly. "And why are you calling?"

_"I've been interning with the Homicide Division to prepare to take the D exam, and last night we got a call about a body. He had his driver's license in his pocket. His name is Kaseem Khalid—"_

"Officer Hawley," Cunningham interrupted. "I'm in the middle of a meeting, so if you can get to the point, I'd appreciate it."

_"Oh. Sorry, ma'am. Uh, the point was I was searching the VICAP and national reports and watches to see if this case matches anything, and I think he might be the person you're looking for."_

"I'm not sure I'm following."

_"Your watch said you were searching for information about an engineer with access to federal buildings and a connection to Somalia. Ma'am, Mr. Khalid was an electrical engineer who worked for an engineering firm that did business with the federal government, and—"_

"He's Somalian," Cunningham finished, recognizing the name.

_"According to his wife, he was a refugee from Somalia when he was a teenager," _Officer Hawley confirmed.

"Okay," Cunningham said with a sigh, absently working a stray lock of hair around her finger as she thought this one through. She had filed the watch mostly to satisfy Gibbs, not thinking she would get anything out of it. And she probably wouldn't have, if this guy hadn't been murdered and the local Homicide didn't have an over-eager officer trying to make an impression in an attempt to get picked up as a detective. But that was exactly the case, so now she had to do something about it.

It was one of Jeff's favorite lines from _House of God_, one of his favorite books: _If you don't want to find a fever, don't take a temperature._

"Has the autopsy been done yet?" she asked, trying to figure out where she could possibly fit into this case.

_"No, ma'am. We have a backlog of cases in the District."_

"Of course you do," Cunningham muttered, remembering working with Metro PD during her short stint at Headquarters. "Okay, I'm going to give you the number for Special Agent Tim McGee. He's the senior field agent of the Major Crimes Response Team at the NCIS Headquarters office at the Navy Yard. Tell him you talked to me. He'll help you coordinate with your detectives and the medical examiner's office to get the body to the NCIS ME. They'll probably be able to get to it tomorrow. Any questions?"

_"Uh, should I transfer you to our head detective?"_

Cunningham groaned; she had known better than to deal with the lowest man on the totem pole. She was choosing to blame the fetus for the lapse of good judgment. "Fine," she sighed.

Almost twenty minutes later, when she finished explaining the entire case—the murdered analyst, the emails from Somalia, the increase in activity from Al-Shabaab, the intelligence about the engineer and chemical weapons, and how his latest murder victim might fit into all that; glossing over some of the more sensitive points—the head detective on the case was more than happy to transfer one of his many cases to NCIS and Cunningham's anti-terrorism task force.

Which brought up her next and even more unpleasant task.

"Hi, this is Special Agent Kim Cunningham. I need to speak to the director," she said to Director Vance's receptionist.

_"Please hold,"_ she replied, and a surprisingly short amount of time later, Vance himself was on the line.

_"Special Agent Cunningham,"_ he greeted, sounding like he was in a rare good mood. _"How's San Diego?"_

"Beautiful and sunny," she replied. "With a side of terrorism, of course." She caught him up to speed on the case, in case Gibbs hadn't been—which was a pretty safe bet—and explained how Metro's murder victim might fit in.

_"This has gotten big enough that I want you to come out here,"_ Vance said when she was done. She barely bit back a groan at what she had, in all honesty, seen coming.

"About that," she said slowly. "Sir, I've been pulled from field work."

_"Are you injured?"_

"Not quite. I'm pregnant." And there it was, the first person outside of family or her task force she had said that to.

_"Oh. Well, it would still be helpful to have you here. I'm sure there's plenty to be done in the office."_

She bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that she could do work in the office in San Diego; she had seen this coming since McGee's first phone call on Sunday, and between Gibbs and Vance, she was a little impressed she made it all the way to Tuesday before getting the word to fly east. "Yes, sir," she said with a sigh. "I'll work out the flights on my end. I'll be there by tomorrow morning."

Now she had just had to tell her husband that she was skipping town again.


	17. Chapter 17

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 17**

_A/N: Sorry, I know I'm a day late. I hope you find it in your hearts to forgive me._

* * *

Special Agent Tim McGee was just about ready to send Wilson and Ruiz home for the evening when his BlackBerry rang. He frowned at the number, recognizing the prefix for Metro PD and wondering why they would be calling him. He hoped they hadn't found another dead analyst by another national landmark. "NCIS, Special Agent McGee," he greeted.

_"Hi, Agent McGee, this is Detective Jon Poole from Metro PD. I just spoke to Agent Cunningham and she told me to talk to you about a murder we had last night."_

"Who?"

_"Detective Jon Poole—"_

"No, I mean, who did you just talk to?" McGee interrupted, trying to remember if he knew any Agent Cunninghams. Maybe she was FBI and Poole was just confused.

_"NCIS Special Agent Kim Cunningham? She runs your agency's task force on anti-terrorism in San Diego?"_

"Don't you mean—oh." He remembered Jeff Cunningham and how they rescued him from a terrorist camp in Yemen nine months before. Well, that had been fast. He wondered how long they had been married and how he had missed it. He made a mental note that she was apparently going by 'Cunningham' now and that he should probably change her contact information in his phone. "Okay, so why did Agent T—Cunningham want you to call me?"

Poole gave an aggravated sigh. _"I didn't think NCIS was so large that you wouldn't talk to each other,"_ he complained. _"We found a murder victim last night that she thinks might be related to your murdered intelligence analyst."_ McGee sat up straighter in his chair, gesturing for Ruiz to sit back down and stop preparing to leave. Although confused, she obeyed. _"Name is Kaseem Khalid. K-A-S-E-E-M, K-H-A-L-I-D. Social is 730-98-0035, date of birth March 26, 1980 in Hargeisa, Somalia, came to this country on a UNHCR refugee card in 1994. He lives in Arlington with his wife and three kids. Agent Cunningham thought it might be related because he's an engineer at a firm that contracts with the federal government."_

McGee's eyes widened at that last bit of information, putting it together with everything he had heard from the analyst division downstairs and Tony in Bahrain. Somalian, engineer, access to federal buildings... No wonder Kim had directed Detective Poole to him. "Sir, would you like help with your case?"

Poole gave a short bark of laughter. _"No, I don't want your _help_. I've taken enough _'help' _from federal agents to know how that goes. I'm giving you the case. We can send an officer to your office tomorrow morning with the case files, and the DCME said any time your ME wants to come get the body is fine by them."_

"Oh." Well, that changed things. "Okay. I'll coordinate with our ME, then. Thanks for the case, Detective." He hung up the phone to see Wilson and Ruiz looking at him curiously. "We have a new case," he informed them. Wilson immediately pulled out a notepad to begin taking notes, but Ruiz's eyes went wide with alarm.

"A new case?" she echoed. "Someone else is dead?" McGee elected to ignore the sentiment behind the question and got to work.

"The name's Kaseem Khalid, social 730-98-0035, 32-year-old engineer who lived in Arlington, was a refugee from Somalia eighteen years ago. He worked for an engineering firm that contracts with the government, I'm not sure which one. Ruiz, look into it and see if you can schedule a time for us to talk to his supervisor tomorrow about any project he was working on. Dwayne, look into his personal life, see if you can find out anything that he's said or supported or given money to that looks suspicious."

"Got it," Wilson confirmed. "Is Agent Tomblin aware of this?"

"She's the one who told Metro to call us," McGee explained. "I'll touch base with her. Do either of you know where Gibbs is?"

"Right behind you." McGee turned quickly to see his supervisory field agent standing right behind the divider, the same place he used to stand when he pulled the same trick on DiNozzo, sipping coffee.

"Oh, hey, Gibbs," McGee greeted. "I don't know if you heard, but—"

"Metro PD is giving us their case," Gibbs interrupted.

"Uh, right," McGee agreed. "They're bringing us the case files tomorrow, and I'm about to go down to talk to Ducky about when he wants the body delivered to us."

"Keep me posted," Gibbs said before he headed up the stairs toward the director's office. McGee frowned after him before turning back to Wilson, to see a similar frown on his face.

So he wasn't the only one who thought Gibbs was acting strange. He wondered if it had anything to do with Dr. Gracy moving to Germany. Or with him turning fifty-five. Or any of the other hundred things Gibbs never talked to anyone about.

"Okay," McGee said, mostly to himself. To Wilson, he said, "I'm going to go down to talk to Ducky and Abby and let them know about this new case, and then I'm going to give Kim a call about all this."

"Good luck," Wilson replied. McGee couldn't quite figure out if he was sincere or not.

The elevator ride to autopsy was quiet and a little cold, both of which suited McGee just fine as he tried to create a timeline in his head of where this case was going. He barely got beyond Vanessa Carter's death when his phone rang, Harley's name and picture on the display. "Hey," he greeted as he answered the call.

"_Hey, yourself. I just got off an incredibly fun training flight."_

"That sounds a lot more exciting than my day," he said with a sigh as the elevator doors opened. He stepped out into the hallway but stopped there, wanting to finish his conversation before he entered Autopsy.

"_Still at work?" _she asked sympathetically.

"Yeah, and we just found out Metro PD is giving us one of their cases, because it might be related to this one," he replied.

"_I'll let you get back to it. I was just calling to say hi, anyway. Give me a call when you get home tonight, okay? I'm not flying tomorrow, so I'll be staying up late."_

"I will," he promised before they said their goodbyes and he got off the phone.

He entered Autopsy to see not Ducky, but Dr. Sonja Gracy sitting at one of the autopsy tables with Jimmy Palmer, papers and books spread out in front of them. "Uh, hi," he said uncertainly, wondering what they were up to. Although Jimmy was in his usual scrubs, Dr. Gracy was in uniform, so he doubted they were finishing up with a case.

"Hi, McGee," Dr. Gracy greeted. "Did you need something?"

"Uh, just Ducky," he replied slowly. "What are you guys working on?"

"Well, I, uh, I decided to go back to medical school," Jimmy said, his ears turning bright pink. "Dr. Gracy is helping me with my application packet."

"He doesn't need much help," Gracy argued lightly. "He left Georgetown on a leave of absence. It's just a matter of ending the leave."

"And money," Jimmy added. "I was able to pay for the first two years by working here part-time, but it's not going to be possible to work part-time during third and fourth years. I thought I had enough saved, but I would have to work another," he glanced at the calculator on the table, "4.3 years to save enough money to pay for two years of tuition, room, board, and books at Georgetown."

"I'm trying to talk him into the Army, obviously, but working here seems to have biased him toward the Navy," Gracy chimed in. "We're working on a scholarship packet. If we get him in front of the board next month, he shouldn't have any problems getting in the program."

"That's great," McGee said. "Uh, where's Ducky?"

"Oh. His office," Jimmy said, gesturing behind them. "Did you have a question about the Carter autopsy? Because I can get you the report."

"Actually, we have another case," McGee replied.

"Another case?" Jimmy asked with a frown, beginning to stand up from his chair. "Where? Do we need the van?"

"The case is coming from Metro PD. The body's in DC's morgue. I just needed to coordinate with Ducky about when he wanted to pick up the body and do the autopsy."

"How'd he die?" Dr. Gracy asked, sounding genuinely interested. "I might tag along on the autopsy. It's been a while since I've had an interesting case."

"Uh, I'm not sure," McGee replied.

"I'll just ask Ducky," she said with a shrug.

"Ask me what?" All three turned to see Dr. Donald Mallard emerge from his office.

"About our new case," McGee said, proceeding to explain the new case and where the body currently was. At the end of the explanation, Ducky sent Jimmy to drive to the DC morgue and retrieve the body, and tentatively scheduled a mid-morning autopsy with Dr. Gracy before McGee was satisfied that that was taken care of.

With the pick-up and autopsy scheduled, he made his way back up to his desk, his cell phone already out as he rode the elevator back to the bullpen, looking for Kim Tomblin—Cunningham—'s number. "_Not a good time, McGee,"_ she said as she answered the phone. _"I'll talk to you tomorrow morning."_

"Tomorrow?" he asked.

"_When I'm in DC,"_ she informed him. _"I'm on the red eye to DCA tonight and then I'll grab a cab to the Navy Yard. I'll be in by zero-eight."_

"You're coming here?" he asked, trying to follow the conversation. She hadn't exactly given him much to follow.

"_Again, we'll talk about it tomorrow."_ And then she was gone.

McGee hoped she explained it when she arrived. He needed one thing about this case he had a handle on.


	18. Chapter 18

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 18**

_A/N: Yes, I know I'm about 15 hours late on posting this. Sorry. And I know there's not a lot of plot development (or canon characters) in this chapter. I promise, I'll get my mind on straight once I'm done over at Fictionpress (which should be soon). _

* * *

Despite her late start on the day, Kim Cunningham took off early from the office. She explained it away as needing to pack for her trip to DC, even though she knew that everyone knew that she kept her go-bag packed and in the trunk of the car at all times.

Since she was pretty much packed for her trip already, she opted for the hospital instead of heading home. Unfortunately very familiar with the layout of Bob Wilson Naval Hospital after dealing with all of Jeff's surgeries and just everyday life in the nine months, she easily made her way to the infectious disease clinic, ignoring the signs restricting the doors to authorized personnel only. "Good afternoon, ma'am," HM3 Phipps greeted her as she walked by.

"Hey, Phipps," she replied. "How're the kids?"

"Spending too much time on the beach," the corpsman replied. "I think Dr. Cunningham's seeing a patient."

"That's okay," she said with a shrug. "I'll wait in his office."

Jeff's office was nothing exciting, just a medium-sized room he shared with two other infectious disease fellows, one desk now standing empty as LCDR Jaime Vega had moved his stuff from the fellows' office to his own attending office down the hall after graduating the week before. Kim took a seat at her husband's desk and pulled out her tablet, not even bothering to check to see if she could log into Jeff's computer. He was more obsessive about locking it when he got up than anyone she had ever met.

She was halfway through an article about increasing tensions among the Afghan army when the door opened. "Well, this is a surprise," Dr. Vega greeted.

"Hey, Jaime," Kim replied. "What're you doing here? Don't you have your own digs now?"

"I forgot my stapler," he explained, holding up the offending office supply. "What about you? Don't _you_ have your own office? And it's not in a hospital?"

"Just waiting for Jeff," she replied with a smile. "How's Laura?"

"Going a little crazy with the wedding planning," Jaime said, rolling his eyes. "I told her we should just do what you guys did, but she said she doesn't want everyone thinking it's a shotgun wedding like yours."

"Ha, ha," Kim said dryly. Jeff had told her that the jokes of the speed of the wedding and what that might mean began as soon as he announced that he proposed. The fact that they found out she was pregnant two months after the wedding certainly didn't help their claims that she hadn't been pregnant much. "Just don't do anything Japanese. One of my brothers did that. It was a mess." Another joke through the infectious disease department was that there must have been something in the air of that office, because both she and Laura, Jaime's fiancée, were half-Japanese.

"I think it's safely a Catholic, not-otherwise-specified, wedding," he replied. "We're not even doing the uniforms bit."

"For shame, Dr. Vega," she said dramatically. "It's too bad, though. You boys look pretty sharp in your collar whites."

"I heard that," Jeff said from the doorway. "I knew I'd catch you saying you like that uniform eventually."

"You didn't let me finish," she shot back. "I was going to continue that he could have gotten some of his Marines in their blues." Her preference for Marine uniforms over those worn by the Navy was a long-standing joke between them.

"Uh-huh," Jeff said with a smile before turning to his old officemate. "I think you're lost, Dr. Vega. This is fellow land."

"I knew I took that wrong turn at the coffee maker," Vega replied. "Hey, you guys got plans for the Fourth?"

"I'll probably be working," Kim said with a sigh. She turned to her husband. "DC tugged on the leash. I have a flight tonight. No idea how long they'll need me."

He surprised her by shrugging. "Let's plan on staying out through the Fourth either way. Next week is a wasted week for me, with the holiday being on Wednesday, so I can fly out after my last patient on Friday and meet up with you."

"You sure?" she asked with a frown.

"Sure," he said. "After all, this may be our last chance to hang out with the Simpletons before we're all parents." Two of their friends from their deployment had gotten married a few years before and were expecting their first child in the next few weeks. "You ready to get out of here? I can finish my notes at home."

"Okay," she replied. "See you later, Jaime."

"Take care."

They headed out to the car in companionable silence. "So what was it that made Director Vance decide to pull you in this time?" Jeff finally asked as they approached the car.

She sighed. "There was another murder," she told him. She knew she probably wasn't supposed to be talking about this stuff with him, but she always left out the specifics. "It may or may not lend credibility to the terrorism theory behind the first murder. Vance wanted me on site, even though I explained that I'm not doing any field work."

"Technically you're not benched until the second trimester," Jeff reminded her. She gave him a look. "I know," he said in a tone that spoke to exactly how many times they had had this conversation. "You don't feel comfortable in the field with the nausea and vomiting."

"You're the one who keeps threatening me with trips to the ER for tube feed nutrition."

"You can't tell me it wouldn't do you good," he pointed out. She didn't say anything as she got into the driver's seat, knowing he was right. She had already been small before the pregnancy, but she had so much trouble keeping food down that she kept losing weight, despite her best efforts. Truth be told, part of what kept her out of the field even though the regulation stated that she could still do her full job for another week was the fear that she would be too weak to run after and tackle a suspect.

"I'm just hoping all you MD types are right when you say that morning sickness stops after the first trimester," she said with a sigh. "Christ, Jeff. I don't want to go to DC. It's going to be hot and humid and I am really not feeling up to working with Gibbs and I have so much to do here and this goddamn evil fetus is making me fucking emotional and I hate it." She saw Jeff fighting a grin out of the corner of her eye. "Oh, shut the fuck up," she sighed. "This is all your fault."

"Mm-hmm," he murmured as he turned up the radio. "Pull over."

"What?"

"Just pull over."

"I thought I was the one who had motion sickness all of a sudden," she commented as she pulled the car over. To her surprise, Jeff turned up the radio before exiting the car, walking around the front to open her door. "C'mon," he said, holding his hand out for her. "I like this song and want to dance with my wife."

She stared at him for a second before slowly shaking her head, unbuckling to climb out of the car. The song was one of his new favorites, and although it was a little too much pop for her tastes, she did like the sentiment.

Jeff had once been a really good dancer, which had changed since his broken leg and surgeries, but there was still no one else she'd rather dance with. Sure enough, it look less than a verse before she was smiling and laughing as Jeff spun her around, singing along to the chorus. _Don't stress / That's dumb / I'm here / And it's nice to be alive / Chill out / It's all right / Kiss me / It's nice to be alive._

"Do you remember the first time we danced?" Jeff asked as he spun her around again.

"Of course," she replied. "It was on R&R. I believe we were wearing less clothes, though."

"I like the way you're thinking, Agent Cunningham," he said with an obvious leer, "but what's acceptable in a Qatar hotel room isn't necessary acceptable next to a California beach."

She laughed, but before she could come up with something clever to say to that, her BlackBerry rang. "I hate that thing," Jeff muttered.

"You and me both," she said with a sigh before answering. "Not a good time, McGee. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning."

_"Tomorrow?"_ the HQ senior field agent asked.

"When I'm in DC. I'm on the red eye to DCA tonight and then I'll grab a cab to the Navy Yard. I'll be in by eight."

She didn't give McGee much of a chance to say much else before she got off the phone. "Come on," she said reluctantly. "Let's go home so I can get ready to leave again."

"All work and no play…" Jeff said teasingly. "I'm going to miss you, but somebody's gotta catch the terrorists, right?"

"Right," she said with a sigh. "I just wish it were somebody else for once. I'm so tired, Jeff."

He kissed her forehead. "The evil fetus'll only be around for another six months," he reminded her gently. "And then another eighteen years."

She groaned. "Thanks for the reminder, babe."


	19. Chapter 19

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 19**

_A/N: I've gotten a few comments about this being classified as a Tony/Ziva story, when in fact it's not. It's true. They will come in more in a bit (if the story as I have it in my head plays out), but still won't be the focus. The original intent was to make it easy to find since it's the same universe, but I did change it to reflect more on who is really featured here._

_Sorry about not replying to pretty much any of the reviews. I do read them and appreciate them, so know that your words aren't falling on deaf ears. And if you have any specific questions, I'll try to address them, either in a PM or an A/N._

* * *

Tony DiNozzo woke slowly to realize that he was alone in bed, and for a second, thought that he had slept through his alarm. He checked the clock on the side of the bed and quickly dispelled that notion, which meant that Ziva had gotten up before 0320 on her own.

He groaned and pulled himself out of bed, wishing this pregnancy and all that came with it would be over soon.

He finally found his wife in the last place he expected to see her, curled up as well as she could be curled up in one of his old chairs in the den, a book open in her hands. "Hey," he greeted as he collapsed on the couch.

"I woke up and could not fall back asleep," she replied, not looking up from her book.

"Baby keeping you up?"

"No, I do not think so," she said with a frown, glancing down at her pregnant belly. "I think he is just sleeping and I am not. I think it is almost time for him to be born. I am so large that I cannot even lie down without getting short of breath."

"Maybe you'll be able to sleep better once he's here." He realized it was a stupid thing to say as soon as he said it, and could tell by the look on her face when he glanced at her that she agreed. "Hey, it's 3:30 in the morning," he protested.

"It is cute how little you know about infants."

"Let's see how cute you think it is when I try to wash him off with the garden hose." He knew without looking that she was giving him another look. "I'm joking," he informed her.

"You should get some sleep. You are not being as funny as you usually think you are."

"What about you?"

"I can still function at work without sleep. You cannot."

"Now that's just not true."

"Which part? That you cannot function without sleep, or that I can?"

"I do just fine."

"The problem is that you believe that." She raised one eyebrow in his direction before returning to her book, a slight smile on her face. "We still need to figure out what we are going to call the baby. And do not say Daniel."

"Danny."

"Very funny."

"I haven't heard you come up with anything that you bring up twice."

She thought about that for a moment before saying, "I like the name Samuel."

"You've never said that before."

Her phone chimed with an incoming email. "It is Kim," she said after scanning it. "She said there has been another murder. A Somali-American engineer in DC."

"Well, that's certainly something," DiNozzo replied, sitting up on the couch. It fit with everything the combined Mossad-NCIS teams had come up with. Of course, those pieces were so vague almost anything would fit. "Why'd she email you and not me?"

"She did," Ziva turned her phone so he could see, but he couldn't see anything from that angle or distance. "You do not have your phone here."

"It's plugged in in the bedroom." Same place he kept it every night. "What else did she say?"

"She is going to DC. She does not seem happy about it."

"She'd been fighting it since the first death," DiNozzo shared. "Cunningham apparently just got back from six weeks in the Caribbean and Tomblin—"

"She is also Cunningham," Ziva interrupted.

"You know I can't deal with that kind of change," DiNozzo complained.

"What were you going to say about her?"

"Oh. She's been having a lot of morning sickness."

"That is hardly exciting."

"It's going to make for a cranky Tomblin. Combine that with Gibbs being Gibbs, and it's going to be a pretty miserable experience for our little McGee."

* * *

Like he had been doing since he first received word of the murdered analyst, McGee arrived at the office early to get started on his day. The first thing he did was check Tomblin's—Cunningham's—flight from San Diego to see that there was still another hour until she landed. That complete, he checked to see what Wilson and Ruiz managed to drag up about Kaseem Khalid, the murdered engineer. He started with Wilson's report, knowing that not only would it be more complete and coherent than anything the probie could put together, but also that his gut was telling him that looking into the man's personal life would be more productive than his professional one.

In addition to the wife and three kids in Arlington, both of Khalid's parents were alive and well and living in Columbus, Ohio, a fact that made McGee roll his eyes, the Tony DiNozzo in his mind already talking excitedly about his alma mater and the city it was located in. By Wilson's research, Ali and Ladan Khalid had lived at the same address since they first arrived in the United States in a UNHCR relocation program in 1994. According to their tax records, Ali worked odd jobs—bus driver, convenience store clerk—and Ladan was self-employed as a seamstress. Khalid also had two younger siblings, both born in Columbus; Alexander was eighteen and had enlisted in the Army, and Sarah was fourteen and enrolled in a public high school in Columbus.

McGee frowned and put an asterisk next to Alexander's information. Although it wasn't unheard of for terrorists to have family members who disagreed with their philosophies, terrorist and soldier were two pretty dichomatous occupations. It wasn't a red herring of anything by any means, but it was something that called for further investigation.

Khalid had been nineteen when he began classes at The Ohio State University—and in his head, McGee had emphasized the _The_, having heard DiNozzo put emphasis on it one too many times—and graduated with a bachelor's in electrical engineering five years later, having interned with the engineering division at Nationwide Insurance during his studies. He had married his wife Cora, a nursing student, a year before graduating, and they stayed in Columbus after graduation, her working part-time as a nurse while training to be a nurse practitioner and him working with a professional engineering firm in Columbus. It was after he completed his professional engineering exam that he took the job with his current firm and they moved from Columbus to Arlington.

Wilson concluded the report by stating that none of his research revealed any statements or publications against the United States or in support of any Arab state, including Somalia. In fact, the Khalids' wedding certificate was signed by a Catholic priest, and McGee had enough Catholic friends to know that a Catholic wedding only happened if both the bride and groom were Catholic. Although he was born and raised Muslim, the evidence pointed to Khalid no longer practicing Islam. While not conclusive by any means, it did make involvement with an extremist Islam organization more unlikely. McGee made a note to ask the wife about it.

He glanced at the flight tracker open on his computer again and saw that the flight from San Diego was making its final approach. On a whim, McGee grabbed his car keys, SIG, and credentials from his desk. "I'm going to go to the airport," McGee informed Gibbs, who was just rounding the corner in the bullpen.

"Good call," the supervisory agent replied, almost stopping McGee in his tracks in surprise. Was Gibbs being nice? What was going on? "See if she has any insights into Wilson's report."

"You've read... Never mind," he finished with a sigh. "See you soon, Boss," he said instead.

For the last few days, Gibbs had been perfecting his disappearing act at work, and still managed to keep up with the case. If that didn't qualify as some sort of superpower, McGee didn't know what would. The man wasn't easy to work with by any means, but he was an asset to NCIS, and McGee had no idea what would happen when Vance forced him to retire on his next birthday.


	20. Chapter 20

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 20**

_A/N: Yes, I have been a terrible author for this one. Lessons learned: 1) Do not try to write two stories at once. 2) Do not try to write a new story while starting a new job. 3) Get more sleep._

_Can't do much about the job (or sleep, unfortunately), but I am done with the other story on Fictionpress, so I'm hoping to be able to dedicate more time to this one. To everyone who has stuck by my unpredictable posting schedule and at times nonsensical chapters, thank you. Your loyalty is, as always, appreciated. _

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Kim Cunningham woke immediately as the wheels of the plane touched down on the runway of Washington Reagan National Airport, instantly alert and aware of her surroundings, but still no more happy about it than she had been six hours before when she boarded the plane in San Diego. She turned off her iPod and noise-cancelling headphones, a little amazed that the flight attendant hadn't made her do either as they made their approach.

Flying first class certainly had its advantages.

As soon as they were done taxiing, she was up, reaching for her rucksack in the overhead compartment. "Let me help you with that," the middle aged man who had been sitting next to her offered.

"Thanks," she replied. At barely five feet tall, some things were easier said than done. And for as much as she liked to do things by herself, she wasn't above letting some businessman think he had done his good deed for the day.

"Are you in the Marine Corps?" the man continued. She raised an eyebrow, a little impressed that he picked up on the pattern of the rucksack.

"I was," she replied. "Now I'm in counterterrorism."

"Semper Fi," he offered with a smile. "I did twenty years," he explained. "Retired in '03. I manage a private security firm now."

"You certainly got into that business at the right time," she commented. He gave a slightly satisfied smile and half-shrug that he didn't have to explain. He was doing well enough to fly first class across the country, after all. She just had a lot of frequent flier miles to thank for that.

"If you're interested in leaving government work, give me a call," he said, pulling out a business card. "Military experience goes a long way in my business."

"It should in any business," she replied with a sigh. Both she and Gardezi volunteered at the vet center in San Diego; she mostly helped teach veterans how to explain how their military experience applied to the civilian workforce, and they both used their law enforcement connections to help place vets interested in that route. "Thank you," she said with a tight smile.

After leaving the plane, she was so focused on getting to the taxi line that she jumped in surprise when she heard a loud, "Kim."

"McGee," she replied once she identified the source of her name. "What're you doing here? I was about to grab a cab."

"I figured I'd save you the fare," the Headquarters senior field agent said with a shrug.

"Okay," she replied, "but we're going to have to stop for food somewhere. Even in first class, food leaves something to be desired. I need something starchy. Preferably with a lot of calories." McGee looked confused; he probably didn't hear that request from women often. Or anybody else, but she wasn't in the mood to explain her difficulties keeping on weight or keeping food down.

"Uh, there's a Dunkin Donuts right in the airport," he finally said.

"Good enough," she replied.

She bought a large coffee and muffin for herself, and an assorted dozen for the office, making sure they had at least one with sprinkles. She still didn't understand why McGee liked sprinkle donuts when he didn't like sprinkles, but she had enough strange eating habits that she didn't question anyone else's.

She chased a prenatal vitamin and Zofran with coffee, and although she knew McGee saw, he didn't comment on it. "We've been looking into Kaseem Khalid's background," he said as they headed for the Charger. She tried not to roll her eyes at the fact that he bothered to pay to park in the garage when he could have very easily illegally parked. Always one for the rules, McGee was. She bet he didn't even go through the Law Enforcement line at the airport.

"Work or personal?" she asked.

"Uh, both, but I haven't read the work report yet." She raised an eyebrow. "I put our probie on it," he explained.

"Gotcha. Find anything interesting in his personal life? He married?"

"Married, three kids, lives in Arlington. Wife's name is Cora."

"That's not Somali."

"Neither is she. Born in El Salvador. Works as a nurse practitioner."

She frowned. That certainly didn't sound like an Islamic extremist, either marrying outside of the faith or having a wife who works, but she was going to keep an open mind until she had all the facts. "What else?"

"He went to Ohio State. So'd his wife."

"Does DiNozzo know?"

"We're not going to tell him."

"Good call. Just how Somali is he, anyway?"

"Came to this country on a refugee card when he was fourteen, but since became a U.S. citizen. He came with his parents, who still live in Columbus and still have their refugee cards. He also has two younger siblings, both natural born citizens. Actually, his brother enlisted in the Army. Is that strange? That someone we're suspecting of terrorism has a brother in the Army?"

"Stranger things have happened," she said. "I'm going to have to read this report. Has Ducky done the autopsy yet?"

"I think they're going to do it this morning."

"I think I'll sit in on it," she said thoughtfully.

"Really?" McGee asked.

"I like listening to Ducky's often roundabout stories," she replied with a shrug. Maybe it was because they reminded her of her grandfathers and the stories they would tell, and just like that, she suddenly missed home.

Damn that evil fetus for making her so hormonal, anyway.

* * *

An hour after arriving at the Navy Yard, Kim Cunningham was in the smallest set of scrubs they had down in autopsy—and still rolled up at both the waist and the ankles—with the full gown, gloves, mask, and hair cover that came with the ensemble. "Pithing is actually a quite humane way of killing," Ducky said as he began in the initial Y incision across Kaseem Khalid's torso. "When properly inserted, the knife, or pithing rod, into the back of the spinal cord leads to the immediate loss of nervous function and immediate death. Until quite recently, it was the preferred method of slaughter of livestock and actually quite safe for the abbatoir, because there is no kick reflex. Mr. Palmer, can you please weigh our guest's heart?" he asked as he lifted the organ from the chest.

"Oh, God," Cunningham moaned, quickly stepping away from the autopsy table. She had barely managed to rip the surgical mask from her face before she was vomiting into the sink.

"I seem to remember several autopsies you've observed without any difficulties," Ducky said a few minutes after she was done, his voice tinged in the sympathy that was exactly the last thing she needed at the moment.

"I didn't have elevated levels of hCG floating through my bloodstream back then," she said, her words bitter. She wasn't mad at Ducky for his observation; she was upset at herself for something that she frequently mocked people new to law enforcement for doing.

"You're pregnant?" Jimmy Palmer blurted out in surprise.

"That's what they tell me, and I think it's unethical for doctors to lie to people about such things." She removed her gloves before leaning against the wall and rubbing her eyes. Maybe she should have stayed upstairs and finished that report Agent Wilson had written.

"How far along?" Ducky asked gently.

"About twelve weeks. And don't even think about saying something supportive about morning sickness ending after the first trimester. They've said it a thousand times, and if it's not true, I swear to God I'm going to end up dropping somebody."

"Out of interest for my own health, then, I shall refrain," Ducky replied. "Did you know that the term 'morning sickness' is actually a misnomer—"

"Not right now, Ducky, please," she pleaded. "I'd rather hear about pithing cattle."

"That sounds like an interesting topic of conversation." Cunningham looked up sharply at the unfamiliar voice to see a tall woman walk into the room, similarly attired in full autopsy garb. "Sorry I'm late, Ducky. There was an unexpected status meeting this morning."

"Not a problem, my dear," Ducky said pleasantly. "We hadn't yet gotten to your area of expertise. I don't believe you've met Agent Kim Tomblin. She's joining us today from San Diego. Agent Tomblin, Dr. Sonja Gracy of the Armed Forces Medical Examiner System."

"Nice to meet you," Cunningham said with a nod. "I'd shake your hand, but I've been warned against that with pathologists. And it's Cunningham now, actually."

"Ah," Ducky said. "I hadn't realized. Congratulations. When did the nuptials take place?"

"March 8, back in San Diego. And then a reception on my family's orchard in Washington at the end of April, when the apple blossoms were in bloom. Waste of a perfectly good party—I was pregnant by then."

"Congrats," Dr. Gracy said. "When are you due?"

"Christmas, believe it or not."

The tall pathologist chuckled. "My daughter is a Christmas baby," she explained. "I wouldn't recommend the labor deck at Bethesda as an ideal holiday vacation spot, but we got a pretty nice gift out of it, so it wasn't a complete waste." Cunningham was pretty sure she was smiling behind her mask. "Any problems with morning sickness?"

"Constantly. And not just in the mornings. I can't keep anything down. My husband keeps threatening me with a feeding tube." After a pause, she explained, "He's a doctor, so he thinks he can do stuff like that."

Dr. Gracy chuckled. "What specialty?" she asked as she lifted the liver out of the abdomen.

"Pediatric infectious disease. He's about to start his third year of fellowship at Balboa."

Dr. Gracy nodded slightly. "Liver 1342 grams, Jimmy. I didn't have too much morning sickness with my daughter, but it was horrendous for my son, and I was pregnant with him while I was finishing up my residency and starting my forensics fellowship. Not the best time to be constantly nauseated. I don't think I would have been able to a single autopsy for the first five months if it weren't for Zofran."

"Already on it," Cunningham said with a sigh. "Doesn't seem to help much. Jeff gives it me to IV about once a week."

"I wish there were an easy cure, but you just have to power through it, unfortunately," she said sympathetically. "You said he was pithed, Ducky?"

"I haven't yet gotten to the wound. I figured you would like to do the honors," the chief medical examiner said.

"Dr. Gracy's an expert on knife wounds," Jimmy chimed in. "It was her work that made you a suspect in Agent Burley's murder."

"Perhaps you should work on your delivery before you resume your medical studies, Mr. Palmer," Ducky said with a sigh. "I do apologize for my assistant's behavior, Agent Cunningham."

"I have brothers. I've gotten worse," she said with a shrug. "Can't say I appreciate the being fingered for the murder of my boss thing, but considering the actual murderer used the same knife and was built a lot like me, I'd say the science was right on the money."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Dr. Gracy commented. "Interesting. He has some significant scarring on his bladder." Cunningham decided her stomach was finally settled—and empty—enough to venture back to the autopsy, grabbing another mask and pair of gloves before looking at what Dr. Gracy was pointing at. "What did he do for a living?"

"Engineer," Cunningham replied.

"Hmm. So probably not from chemical exposure. Any extended travel to the Nile River delta?"

"I don't know about the Nile, but he spent the first fourteen years of his life in Somalia," Cunningham said. "Why?"

"It's probably schistosomiasis," Dr. Gracy replied. "Parasitic infection of the bladder. One of the leading causes of bladder cancer worldwide, actually. Jimmy, you're going to want to take a few extra cuts of the bladder for histology. Let's see if we can find some parasites. And if we do, let's send some slides to USUHS. The Parasitology department is always asking for more samples."

"Is that something that would have come from recent travel to Somalia?" Cunningham asked. If they had medical proof that he had been hanging out in his old stomping grounds, it would definitely tip the scales in favor of him being involved with whatever the hell Al-Shabaab was up to.

"Not necessarily," Ducky stepped in. "In fact, with this level of chronic scarring of the transitional muscle, I'd say this is likely from an infection of childhood. _Schistosoma_ flukes can live in the body for years, even decades, continuing to burrow and cause local damage. When I was a medical officer—"

"If you're looking for evidence of recent overseas travel, there are other things we can check," Dr. Gracy interrupted. "Most parasites that live in the gut don't live as long as schistosomiasis. If he has an active parasitic infection in his small or large intestine, that would most likely be a recent infection."

"Sounds like a plan."

Once they finished with the internal organs, Palmer closed the cavity and they turned the body over. "That is definitely a pithing," Dr. Gracy commented, sounding almost impressed. "It's going to be difficult to get a mold, with all the bones and ligaments and nervous tissue involved. Not at all like soft tissue, but we should be able to get tool marks from the bones." She looked over at Cunningham. "This part is pretty precise work and is probably going to take a while. You're welcome to stay, but if you have something else to do, that might be a better use of your time. Is there anything specific you need us to look for?"

"Any evidence of recent travel, like you mentioned," the special agent replied. "Anything you can get as far as the knife or who wielded it." She frowned. "DiNozzo said something about mustard gas, so any evidence of dealing with chemical warfare agents."

"We'll take some samples for Abby," Ducky promised.

"Oh, and one last thing," Cunningham said as she began to peel off her gloves. "We haven't ruled out this guy as Carter's killer."


	21. Chapter 21

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 21**

* * *

McGee was just finishing a phone call to make an appointment to meet with Kaseem Khalid's supervisor at Booz Allen Hamilton when Kim Tomblin—Cunningham—emerged from the elevator. "You okay?" he asked, concerned. Her hair was in a disheveled ponytail and she looked paler than she had when he picked her up at the airport.

"Fine," she said, her voice short. She crossed in front of his desk to the small area on the other side of the partition from the probie desk and pulled something from her rucksack, which she had unceremoniously dropped on top of the desk when she arrived. She walked back toward him, a drink in hand. "Ducky and Jimmy and a Dr. Gracy are working on the knife wound now," she reported.

"What are you drinking?" he asked.

"Ensure shake. Why?"

"Where'd you get it?"

"My rucksack," she said slowly. "What's with the questions?"

"You carried that on."

"McGee, start making sense or I'm going back to San Diego."

"I was just wondering how you got it through security."

"I'm a fucking federal agent, McGee. I don't go through security, because flashing my SIG at airports tends to scare people. Am I scaring your fucking little probie?"

McGee glanced to his right to see Ruiz looking at Kim with wide eyes. "Looks like it, yeah."

"Good. No reason for me not to have fun on this trip." She took a drink of her shake, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. "They said they'll look for evidence of recent travel to Africa and any evidence of playing with chemical warfare agents. It'll be tomorrow at the earliest before they can get any of that." She took another drink. "They're also looking for evidence for or against Khalid being Carter's killer."

"What?" Ruiz asked in surprise. "Why would they look for that?"

McGee watched as Kim gave him a puzzled look before she turned to Ruiz. "Because we don't have any evidence that he's not," she said slowly. "We have a dead analyst who was looking into Al-Shabaab doing something that they're not supposed to be doing for the Fourth of July, a dead Somali engineer, and SIGINT that says that Al-Shabaab was playing with chemical warfare with the help of an engineer. Why the fuck wouldn't we suspect that engineer of foul play?" Ruiz didn't have a response to that, continuing to stare at Kim with wide eyes, and McGee sighed. He was going to have to have a talk with the probie about how to act around outside experts. Especially outside experts who poked at people for fun.

Must have been a Marine thing.

Kim apparently lost interest with Ruiz, because she turned back to McGee as she took another drink from the shake in her hand. "Do you have a white board?" she asked.

"We have the plasma," he said slowly.

"Well, that's not going to work, unless you want me writing on it." She finished the drink and looked around the office. "What about recycle bins? You have those?"

"Break room."

She walked off, presumably to throw away the bottle, and while she was gone, Ruiz gave him a look that didn't take much to interpret, but before she could say anything, Kim came back into the bullpen. "I just remembered that I have something as good as a white board," she said, leaning over her rucksack. She held up her tablet. "Can you sync it to the plasma?"

"Sure," McGee said, interested to see what she had in mind. It only took a minute for him to connect the tablet to the plasma via the office wifi.

"Thanks," she said as she took the small device back. "So, we have three cases," she said as she brought up a blank page on the tablet and used a stylus to split it into thirds. "Carter's murder, Khalid's murder, and whatever is going to be going on for the Fourth of July." She labeled each of the sections on her tablet, the words showing up on the plasma screen. "Let's go in chronological order. What do we know about Carter's murder?"

"It was between 1900 and 2300 on Saturday night," Ruiz said promptly.

"Suspects? Did you ever find the boyfriend?"

"Still on the list of things to do," McGee explained. "There are twenty-one Jake or Jacob Clarks who work in hospitals in the tristate area."

"Sounds like probie work," Kim observed, nodding toward Ruiz. "Enjoy the cold calls. I know I did when I was a probie. What else do we have on Carter? Any forensics?"

"Abby got DNA, but it doesn't match anyone in the database."

"She'll be able to compare that with Khalid's data. We might know by the end of the day if he's her killer or not."

"By the end of the day?" Ruiz echoed in dismay. Kim frowned before turning to McGee.

"Where'd you find her, anyway?"

"I have a master's degree in accounting," Ruiz said indignantly.

"Great. I'll send you my tax returns. What the fuck does that have to do with solving crime? Do you have any experience with forensics? Or maybe biology lab in college? I'm guessing not much, because if you did, you'd know that extracting DNA from cells and comparing it to DNA you extracted from other cells takes at least eight hours. And no amount of skill or hovering by Gibbs can make that go much faster. Don't you have a junior field agent?" she asked, directing the question at McGee

"He's down in evidence, looking through the case files from Metro PD on Khalid's murder," the senior field agent explained. "Do you want me to get him?"

"Nah, he's fine. Maybe he'll be able to help us fill in the Khalid column when he's done. Let's skip ahead to shenanigans on the Fourth. What do we have? Other than random SIGINT and wild conjecture."

"That's about it," McGee said with a sigh. He knew Kim wasn't thrilled about getting called to DC on so little and wished he had more to offer, but he didn't. "From what we have from our analysts here and from Tony, Al-Shabaab has—or maybe had—an engineer who had a location for them. If Khalid was that engineer, it was probably one of the projects he was working on."

"Since we're already playing the wild conjecture game, we'll continue," Kim said, writing 'Khalid projects?' on her tablet. "Do we know what he was working on?"

"I'm going to meet with his supervisor in three hours," McGee said. "I'll get a list of every project he was involved in since he started working there."

"They were interested in the makings of mustard gas as well, right?" Kim asked. "So we'll want to focus on any projects with a potential distributing method. Impure mustards, which is usually what the bad guys deal in, smells pretty bad, so indoor distribution is less likely—if a building smells like rotten eggs or old mustard, you're going to leave. It also does most of its damage by droplets contacting the skin, so fountains would be a concern. They have the mechanism already to shoot the stuff out and into a crowd, especially if we have windy conditions."

"How do you know this stuff?" Ruiz blurted out, her eyes wide. McGee was really going to have to have a talk with her.

"Figuring out how the bad guys want to kill us has been my job for my entire adult life," Kim replied. "I bet McGee is even better at it. He writes it into fiction that people keep buying."

McGee winced; the Thom E. Gemcity identity wasn't exactly known to his new teammates, and if what had happened when his old teammates found out was any indication, it was best to keep it from them as long as possible. He was getting better at coming up with names for his characters, so with any luck, they wouldn't find out that it was based on them. Not that he had to worry about that with Ruiz; she hadn't been around long enough to make it into a book, and if Kim decided to report back to Gibbs or Vance on the level of intelligence of her questions, she might not make it to the next case. "Is there anything we can put in the Khalid column?" he asked to change the subject.

"Time of death," Kim said. "I got that from Ducky this morning." She recorded the hours on Monday evening to her list. "And cause of death." She put the word 'pithing' immediately below that. "Ducky really loves pithing, in case anyone is wondering. He could probably talk to you about it for a couple of hours."

"There aren't many topics Ducky couldn't talk about for a number of hours," McGee pointed out.

"True," Kim agreed. The chime of the elevator got everyone's attention, and they all turned to see Sonja Gracy step out, still in scrubs but without the other autopsy garb.

"Is he around?" she asked, directing the question at McGee.

"I haven't seen him in a while," he replied apologetically. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

"I'm surprised," she said dryly. "Okay. Abby is working the particulars as far as the blade, but what I can tell you from the autopsy is that you're looking for someone between sixty-six and sixty-nine inches tall, probably right handed, not necessarily with a lot of upper body strength. Doesn't take much to kill somebody by shoving a knife into the base of the skull. I doubt there'll be much in the way of DNA evidence. Jimmy, Ducky, and I are all going to be checking slides for evidence of recent parasitic infections, but we didn't see anything on gross examination. Like Ducky said, the schistomiasis scarring on the bladder is probably from a pretty old infection. Ducky'll be writing the report. Questions?"

"Are you really moving to Germany?" McGee blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Yes, but maybe not until I promote in December," Gracy replied. "We'll see how the cards fall. If you see Gibbs any time soon, tell him he can get the particulars on the autopsy from Ducky." She gave them a tight smile before turning around the way she came, disappearing into the elevator.

"Is she sleeping with Gibbs?" Kim asked once the elevator doors closed.

"Why do you ask?" McGee asked, wondering if she was really able to figure that out just by that one conversation.

"Women's intuition," Kim replied. "And a little bit of pity, to be honest." McGee had to check to make sure Gibbs wasn't standing behind them, because it was for lines like that that he usually appeared out of thin air. Not this time, which was good for Kim, although he doubted she cared much what Gibbs thought of her. "Okay, back to work. We have three cases to solve. And we're down to a week to go for one of them, or we're going to be solving it the hard way. With an attack we didn't manage to anticipate."


	22. Chapter 22

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 22**

* * *

They split up after lunch, with McGee and Ruiz heading to Booz Allen Hamilton to speak with Kaseem Khalid's supervisor and Wilson and Kim going to Arlington to see what they could get from Cora Khalid. "Who is she, anyway?" Ruiz asked as McGee pulled the Charger out of the NCIS motorpool.

"Tomblin? I mean, Cunningham? Kim?" He was going to have to get used to this name change.

"How can she just come in here and take over the investigation like that?"

"She's not taking over," McGee replied, although now that she brought it up, it kinda did feel like she had taken over the show in the bullpen that morning. "And she's here because the director called her in. She knows more about Islamic terrorism than any other field agent in the agency."

"That doesn't mean she can just come in and yell at us about how to work our own cases."

"Actually, it pretty much does," McGee admitted. "And when you have an outside expert coming and helping with the case, it's best not to question the way they do things." He tried to figure out how to say what he was trying to say. "Kim can be a bit hard to work with sometimes. Believe me—I was senior field over her for a few months a couple of years ago, and when she knows she's right, she won't hear otherwise, from anyone. Not even Gibbs. Maybe it was because she commanded Marines for five years. I don't know. But I do know that she knows what she's talking about, so when she talks, it's best to listen. Even when she says something you don't want to hear." He frowned. "Truth is, she might be right, about Khalid being Carter's killer. We won't know for sure until we get DNA back from Abby. So until then, we need to work up his murder and work him up as if he might be a murderer and terrorist." They rode the rest of the way to Booz Allen Hamilton in silence. He was pretty sure she was pouting.

Their badges and the fact that they had an appointment with Scott Hasty got them escorted quickly to the elevators and then into Hasty's office. "Agents McGee and Ruiz to see you, Mr. Hasty," the escort said before quickly leaving.

"Thanks for coming," Hasty said, rising from his chair to shake hands over the desk. "Would you like to sit at the table?" he continued, gesturing toward the table in the other side of the large office. "I still can't believe this happened to Kasey," he continued as he moved to sit with them at the table. "I mean, couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

"Do you know what he was doing in the District?" McGee asked. "I understand he lives in Arlington."

"Yes, and I have no idea," Hasty said with a slight shake of his head. "He wasn't meeting with a client, I can tell you that. We do all business in the office, clients come to us. The only exception is the DoD, and that's only to the Pentagon. Even if he was meeting with a client, though, the only project he's been working on for the last few months was the remodel of the Smithsonian Castle. It wouldn't make any sense for him to be in the Farragut area."

"Maybe he was meeting with someone he didn't want you know about," Ruiz jumped in. Hasty frowned.

"You mean like a girlfriend?" he asked. "There are some guys in the office I'd believe it from, but not Kasey. He's completely devoted to his wife and kids."

"I mean like terrorists," Ruiz said, making McGee wince. Not how he wanted this interview to go.

"Because he's from Somalia?" Hasty asked, his frown deepening. "Is that why you're automatically assuming that he's a terrorist? He's a U.S. citizen with a top secret security clearance. Let me show you his office." He stood and headed for the door before McGee could think of anything to say to calm him down. There was certainly no doubt Khalid's coworkers—or at least this one—cared about him. "Here's Kasey's office," Hasty said, opening an already unlocked door just down the hall. "Do you see anything here that makes you believe he would be a terrorist? He's not even Muslim, for crying out loud—we go to the same Catholic church. Their twins were just christened there three weeks ago."

McGee looked around the small office; just as Hasty said, there was nothing in this office that even gave the hint of 'terrorist'. In fact, there was nothing that even hinted that he wasn't a natural-born citizen of the United States. The wall was adorned with diplomas and professional certifications, and the three pictures on his desk were a wedding picture, one that was likely from that christening Hasty mentioned, and one of Khalid standing next to a young man in a blue Army Service Uniform with the rank of private on his sleeves. Private Alexander Khalid, McGee was guessing. The picture looked recent.

And right next to the computer, a clock with Brutus the Buckeye. The guy must have been a true fan; not even Tony had had such a thing on his desk. "What projects was Mr. Khalid working on?" McGee asked Hasty.

"Like I said, he's been working on the Smithsonian remodel for the last few months."

"He's an electrical engineer, right?"

"Yes. He also has a professional engineering certification." Hasty nodded to that particular piece of paper on the wall. "He was the PE on the Smithsonian project."

"We're going need a list of all of the projects he had worked on since he started working here," McGee said.

"Because you still think he's a terrorist," Hasty said with no small amount of hostility.

"No," McGee lied. Truth was, he still wasn't sure. "But we have evidence that a Somali terrorist group has access to engineering plans to federal buildings. And I don't know how many Somali engineers there are with access to engineering plans to federal buildings, but I doubt it's many."

Hasty stared at McGee for a long minute. "That information is classified," he finally said.

"I'm not asking for the plans, just the names of the buildings he worked on." It was obvious from Hasty's face that he wasn't going to be getting anything. "We can get a warrant," he continued, "but if we do that, we'll have a team of federal investigators in here, searching through all of your records to find every single one with Khalid's name on it. I'm sure that's a lot of records to go through. Your entire department will lose at least a day of work. Maybe more."

Hasty's expression didn't change, but McGee could tell he was thinking about that. "Let's go back to my office," he finally said.

They didn't go back to the table; Hasty went directly back to his chair behind the desk, leaving McGee and Ruiz sitting on the uncomfortable chairs on the other side of it. "Kasey started working here three years ago, after he finished his PE in Columbus," he said as he searched his computer. A minute later, the printer hummed and released a few sheets of paper. "Everything with Kasey's name on it," he said as he handed over the pages. "Is there anything else?" he asked, that edge of hostility still present.

"The Reflecting Pool?" McGee asked, seeing that on the page.

"That's where Carter was found," Ruiz said in surprise.

"Who?" Hasty asked.

"Uh, another murder victim," McGee said. He knew Ruiz was new at this, but her interview skills were among the worst he had ever seen. He wished he had taken Kim and stuck Ruiz with Wilson.

"Oh, and now you're going to try to pin Kasey on that, too?" Hasty asked. "What is it, one-size-fits-all crime solving? He's Somali and black, therefore he must be a terrorist and a murderer?"

"What did Mr. Khalid do on the Reflecting Pool?" McGee asked, ignoring the question.

"He reviewed the specs. It was right after he started here. Is there anything else you need, or do you need help finding more crimes to pin on Kasey?"

"I think we're good here," McGee said as he stood to leave. Ruiz opened her mouth, but he nodded for her to get up and head out of the office. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Hasty."

"Please direct any further questions about Kasey or anything else to our legal department," was the farewell they received.


	23. Chapter 23

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 23**

* * *

When McGee and Ruiz left for Booz Allen Hamilton, Cunningham and Wilson got in another Charger and headed for Arlington to talk to the widow. "I've never been a fan of the wives and girlfriends talk," Cunningham said from the passenger seat.

"I've never talked to a female agent who is," Wilson replied. "It's okay. I'm pretty good at it."

Cunningham chuckled. "I don't doubt it," she said, amused. He reminded her of a younger, yet somehow more mature, DiNozzo. She was sure he was good with the ladies, from little kids to elderly grandmothers. He just gave off that charming, 'it's okay, you can trust me' vibe, without saying a word.

Her personal iPhone rang with Jeff's new favorite song, _It's Nice To Be Alive_. She chuckled when she saw the name on the display. "That's an interesting ringtone," Wilson commented.

"It's my husband's newest favorite song. He must have changed it." They had a tendency to do that to each other's phones. She liked to pick songs that would be embarrassing; he went for sentimental. He really was a better girl than she was. "Hey, babe," she greeted. "I'm in the car. We're about to talk to a woman who is now a single mother to three small kids. How's your day?"

_"Not as exciting as yours, obviously,"_ he replied. _"How're you feeling?"_

"Same as always."

_"Been eating?"_

"Been trying. Some of the food on the flight, a muffin at Dunkin, Ensure shake after the autopsy, sandwich for lunch. You?"

_"Just breakfast and coffee so far."_

"And then some more coffee."

_"Of course." _

She chuckled. "I texted Anderson when I landed. He's going to come pick me up after he's done with work so I can have dinner with the world's largest toddler."

_"I'm sure he's not the world's largest."_

"But he's got to be close. We should start collecting things of his so we can auction them off when he's a famous basketball player."

Jeff chuckled. _"See if you can see swipe a stuffed elephant while you're there,"_ he joked. _"I have tickets for the red eye Friday night, so I'll see you Saturday morning. I can get the Andersons or the Moxes or Simple or Colleen or somebody to pick me up if you're still working."_

"Sounds like a plan. I need to be briefed before we arrive, so I'm going to have to let you go."

_"Okay. Good luck. Try to feed the evil fetus again today. I love you."_

She smiled. "I love you, too. I'll call you tonight." She hung up the phone, a slight smile still on her face.

"How's your husband?" Wilson asked.

"I swear, he has the most ridiculous job ever."

"What does he do?"

"Infectious disease pediatrician."

"And how is that a ridiculous job?"

"It's not nearly as impressive as it sounds. He plays with kids all day. And he just got back from a six week 'mission' in the Caribbean."

"Doing what?"

"He claims treating malaria and parasitic infections, but really he was just snorkeling and climbing mountains." Most ridiculous job ever. "Okay, tell me about the Khalid personal life so I'm not going into this interview completely blind."

He spent the rest of the trip essentially reciting the report he had written the day before while she listened quietly, and then they were at the door of the modest Arlington home. "Hello, ma'am," Cunningham said to the middle-aged Hispanic woman at the door, pulling out her credentials. "I'm Special Agent Kim Cunningham from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, and this is Special Agent Wilson. Is Mrs. Khalid available?"

"Cora," the woman said into the house. A minute later, a dark-haired woman in her late twenties or early thirties appeared, a toddler at her hip. She said something in rapid Spanish to the woman Cunningham could only assume was her mother as she handed off the little girl.

"Can I help you?" she asked, directing her attention at the two agents at her door.

"Yes, ma'am," Cunningham said, showing her credentials again. "NCIS. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about your husband?"

"I don't understand," Mrs. Khalid said as she gestured for them to enter. "I already talked to the police."

"Yes, ma'am," Cunningham said as they followed the widow in. "We just have some follow-up questions."

"Did you find the man who did this?" she asked.

"Not yet." Mrs. Khalid's eyes closed in pain at Cunningham's words. "Ma'am, did your husband have any contact with anyone in the Somali community?"

"No," she said automatically. "I mean, I do not even know if there _is_ a Somali community in the DC area, but if there was, no. Even when we were still living in Columbus, the only Somalis he ever spent time with were his family. He did not go the mosque or any festivals or celebrations." She frowned slightly. "He does not have much in common with Somalis anymore, other than where he was born. He married a Salvadorian woman and is now Catholic. His friends are from work and our church."

"What was his relationship like with his family?" Cunningham asked.

"Alex idolizes him," Mrs. Khalid replied, a slight smile on her face. "And Kasey is so proud of him. He flew down to Ft. Jackson when Alex graduated from Basic, and now that Alex is in California at language school, they talk on the phone almost every other day. Kasey says it's so Alex can practice his Arabic and Somali, but it's Kasey who needs the practice."

"They talk in Somali?"

"And Arabic," Mrs. Khalid pointed out. "To be honest, I cannot tell one from the other."

"Does he speak either language to anybody else?"

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "He calls Sarah, too, his younger sister, but only speaks to her in English. He is worried about her, that she will fall into the same trap of their parents, that she will not leave the Somali community. She is very bright, but if she does not assert herself, she will find herself married with children before she is twenty. That is the last thing Kasey wants."

"And their parents?" Cunningham prodded.

"He does not speak to them," Cora said sadly. "He has not been close to them for some time, maybe since they left Somalia. I did not meet them until we were already engaged." She closed her eyes for a second before opening them and resuming what she was saying. "Kasey had a brother and sisters in Somalia. They were killed before they could leave Somalia. He has always felt that they resented him for that, that he lived and they did not." At that moment, the unmistakable, ear-splitting scream of an infant came from down the hall, and a few seconds later, a second, equally young-sounding voice joined in.

Mrs. Khalid looked like she was about to fall apart, so Kim rose from the couch. "Let me help," she offered. "My sister-in-law had twins a few months ago. I hear about how overwhelming it can be."

"That it is," Mrs. Khalid said with a sigh as they walked into the nursery. She took one twin, leaving Cunningham to the other.

"What are their names?" Kim asked as she began trying to soothe the crying infant. She really wished Jeff was there; he just had a natural way with kids that she hoped she could begin to figure out in the next six months.

"This one is Ethan, and you have Ella. Our oldest is Grace." She took Ethan to the changing table. "Your sister-in-law's twins, what are their names?"

"Robby and Ryan," Cunningham replied. "They're identical. My brother keeps threatening to tattoo their names on the bottom of their feet so he doesn't mix them up. They have bracelets that they wear instead. Probably a better solution."

"I fear I would make the same mistake if we did not have one girl and one boy," Mrs. Khalid admitted with a slight smile. "And I know Kasey would." At her late husband's name, her voice grew sad again.

"What are you planning on doing?" Kim asked.

"We are going back to Ohio," she replied. "Toledo, where my family is. I do not make enough money as a nurse practitioner to support us here. Kasey's life insurance will probably go into college funds." She looked up. "I never considered that I would have to do this without him," she admitted. "I do not know if I can."

"I think we surprise ourselves with what we're capable of," Cunningham replied. "I know this seems like a strange question, but what were your husband's thoughts of Somalia?"

"He thinks it is largely being mismanaged," Mrs. Khalid answered without hesitation. "That there was too much war for too long without anyone seeming to care, and still it continues. That there are too many boys like his brother who are killed too young and too many girls raped and murdered like his sisters. That the reasons for it are largely trivial but seem so large to those involved. He has no desire to ever go back. He does not know why anybody would want to. He wishes that it would all end."

"He was born in the north," Cunningham said cautiously, not sure how much Mrs. Khalid knew of the political situation in Somalia. Fortunately, she seemed pretty well-versed.

"Yes, in Somaliland," she replied. "It was Somaliland's desire for independence that started the civil war, in a way. He does not see why Somalia cannot be more like the United States, separate people and separate states living together peacefully. Well, he does see, but he finds it…childish. To be honest, Kasey does not talk much about politics or international situations. He does not find it as interesting as his work."

"I see," Cunningham murmured, even though she didn't, not really. Of course, to her, politics and international situations were her work. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Khalid," she finally said. "If we have any more questions, we'll give you a call."

"Please keep me informed of your progress," Mrs. Khalid replied. "Please find who killed my husband, who did this to my family."

Cunningham promised that she would try her hardest, and then she and Wilson were out the door. "It doesn't make any sense," she said as they headed back to the Navy Yard. "Khalid being Al-Shabaab's engineer, I mean. Al-Shabaab is a southern thing. The Khalid family is from Somaliland, which is to the north. They see themselves as warring countries."

"Espionage, maybe?" Wilson asked.

"No," she said automatically. "Wars in the Middle East aren't about money and land. Well, they are, because everything is about money and land. But they're about history and conflicts that go back a thousand years. The north and the south have hated each other for a long time, and you don't just get to switch sides. Your position is based on your family, village, and most importantly, your clan. You don't turn you back on that." She frowned as she tried to think it through. "The only situation that would get Khalid to do anything for Al-Shabaab was if they were threatening someone he was close to, someone from his family, but his siblings are all either dead or far too young to have a bone in this fight, and he doesn't talk to his parents. If his wife is to be believed."

"Do you think she's lying?" he asked, seeming somewhat surprised about that.

"Not intentionally," Cunningham replied. "She's smart and she's savvy, but there's a lot of this stuff she doesn't grasp. It's not in her upbringing the way it was his, and there are a lot of nuances I bet she's not aware of. I don't even know if she would be able to tell you if he was Sunni or Shia before he converted to Catholicism."

"But you can?"

"Sunni," she replied confidently. "I'd bet money on it. Somalia's very heavily Sunni."

"Okay," he said dismissively. "But how is knowing that going to help us find out who killed him? Or if he killed Carter? Or if he was involved with Al-Shabaab at all?"

"It's not," she said with a shrug. "But it gives us somewhere to start." She didn't explain that further before she had her BlackBerry out, already searching for her own probie's number. "Hey, Gardezi," she said into the phone. "I have a task for you."

_"Sure,"_ Agent Gardezi replied.

"I need you to fly up to Monterey tomorrow," she informed him. "Kaseem Khalid's younger brother is an Army linguist at the Defense Language Institute, probably for Arabic, because I don't think they do Somali there. Private Alexander Khalid. I need you to talk to him, see if you can get a feel for the family dynamics, especially between Kaseem and the parents. Just find out as much as you can."

_"What are you thinking?"_ he asked.

"I'm not sure yet," she replied. "But if Khalid was working for Al-Shabaab, it has to do with the family. He wouldn't have done it willingly. He's from Somaliland. Do as much of the interview in Arabic as you can."

_"You know Iraqi Arabic and Somali Arabic aren't the same, right?"_

"You're a smart boy, Gardezi. I trust you'll be able to figure it out. Maybe you can all go the mosque together afterwards."

_"Now I know you're messing with me,"_ he complained. She smiled; Gardezi was Shia and if Private Khalid still practiced Islam, he would be Sunni. _"I'll see what I can dig up,"_ he promised.

"I knew bringing you back from Detroit would be a good idea," she replied. "Thanks, Gardezi. Give me a call tomorrow when you're done talking to Khalid." She ended the call and checked her watch with a sigh. "The call to DiNozzo is going to have to wait," she mused, mostly to herself. "I don't think either him nor Ziva would appreciate the being woken up in the middle of the night. Okay, Wilson. Let's hurry back so we can see if Abby managed to find the case-breaking piece of evidence in our absence."

She really hoped so. The sooner this case was over, the happier she would be. And the sooner Cora Khalid would be able to start to heal.


	24. Chapter 24

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 24**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo had never been a fan of his alarm clock, less so when it started going off at 5 am. He groaned and smacked at the device until it stopped beeping. "I am not getting up," Ziva murmured next to him.

"You're not?" he asked dumbly. She opened one eye to give him a modified 'you're an idiot' look.

"I barely fell asleep," she informed him. "I think more sleep would be a better idea than trying to splash around in the pool." She closed her eye again, ending the discussion before he could say anything.

He briefly considered skipping his usual run and staying in bed with her, but figured that having the king-sized bed to herself would probably help the whole 'more sleep' thing than him staying in the bed.

Which was a good thing, because as soon as he got up to change into his running clothes, his phone rang.

He quickly unplugged the offending device and left the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked.

_"Not really, because I'm a couple of hours off my baseline,"_ Kim Cunningham's voice replied. _"Ziva strikes me as someone who gets up at zero five every morning to work out, so I figured you'd be up."_

"I just woke up, thanks," DiNozzo replied. "And Ziva's still in bed. Apparently pregnancy is a reason to not work out." Which wasn't quite true; this was probably only the second morning in the entire thirty-seven weeks of pregnancy that she didn't get up at five.

_"Jeff keeps trying to tell me that, but I just ignore him,"_ Kim replied. _"So, got some updates for you, if you're awake enough to process them."_

"This can't wait until normal working hours?" he complained.

_"No,"_ she said slowly. _"I'm in DC. When your normal working hours start, I'll be in bed. Where I'm planning on going as soon as this conversation is over, because I took the red eye here and then promptly worked all day and apparently doing that while growing a person is a little tiring. Updates. You ready?"_

"Yeah," he muttered, grabbing a piece of paper and pen from the kitchen counter. "Go."

_ "Our murdered Somali-American engineer, Kaseem Khalid—who went by Kasey, by the way—did not kill Vanessa Carter. DNA cleared him. Still no match for the DNA that Abby got from Carter. The probie here is supposed to start cold calls to Jake Clarks tomorrow."_

"Lucky probie."

_"We've all done it. McGee and said probie went to Booz Allen to talk to Khalid's supervisor. Apparently one of the projects he worked on a couple of years ago was the Reflecting Pool, which was where Carter was killed."_

"That can't be a coincidence."

_ "Well, it can be… Never mind, I've had too many arguments with people Gibbs trained about the existence of coincidences. McGee turned in the entire list of projects to the analysts, who forwarded it to the NSA and CIA and probably your people, and they're going to see if they can find any matches to Somalia, Al-Shabaab, or Africa in general. Wilson and I went to talk to the widow, and this is where things get hinky, to steal Abby's word."_

"Hinky how?"

_ "Khalid was from Somaliland."_

"Then why would he be working for Al-Shabaab?"

_ "Good, you are awake. He's also not Muslim, not anymore. He converted to Catholism before he married his wife. Which is not an easy process. Before my Iraq roommate got married, her husband went through that whole process, because she's Catholic for real—"_

"It is far too early in the morning for me to be hearing about your Marine friends," he interrupted.

_"She's actually Navy, he's a Marine, but point taken. He wasn't Muslim, had no contact with the Somali community that his wife knew of, and from Somaliland. Wife said he wasn't close to his family. He had two younger siblings who were born in Columbus—"_

"Ohio?"

_"Goddammit, we weren't supposed to mention that to you,"_ she swore. _"Don't get all excited, but Khalid and his wife attended your alma mater. So did my aforementioned Iraq roommate, now that I think about it. But before you bust out in _Hang On Sloopy_, he was close to both younger siblings—brother is 18 and just enlisted in the Army as a linguist, sister is 14 and a high school freshman—but not his parents. I'm sending my probie up to Monterey tomorrow to interview the brother to find out what the family dynamics really were."_

"What're you thinking?"

_ "There's the obvious—that he's not our guy, assuming said guy even exists. But we know what everyone thinks of coincidences, so if he is the guy, the only way I can think of someone from Al-Shabaab getting intel from someone born in Somaliland is something against the family. Blackmail, something in the background they wouldn't want made public, I don't know. But I think family is where we need to look."_

"Do you have the parents' names? I can see if there's anything we can dig up from here about their time in Somalia."

_ "Is Chad still in that area?"_

"South Sudan at the moment, but I can find out if he's available for a trip to Somalia for some research."

_ "What about Mossad?"_

He snorted. "Ziva doesn't tell me anything about where her assets are," he said, only slightly bitter. She knew everything about his job and he knew nothing about hers. "I can ask, but she probably won't even tell me if she can take it on or not." He really hoped that either Chad Dunham, NCIS's floater in East Africa and the UAB, or someone from Mossad could take care of it; or that they would find that there was nothing worth going to Somalia to work up, because he really didn't want to be grabbing a flight down to Somalia when Ziva was so close to having a baby. "Names?"

_"Yeah, I have that. Father's name is Ali, mother's is Ladan."_

"Ali Khalid?" he groaned. "There have got to be a million of them in Somali."

_"And I don't have Ladan's surname before they were refugees,"_ she added apologetically. He groaned again; in Somali and many other countries, surnames were the fathers' first names and women didn't usually take their husbands' names. The Khalid family wouldn't have had the same surnames in Somalia, and likely made that change when they arrived in the States. _"Kaseem Khalid was likely Kaseem Ali before the move,"_ Kim continued, apparently thinking the same thing he was. _"He also had three siblings before the war, all three killed prior to them getting refugee status. Brother's name was Mohammed, two sisters, Fathia and Mariam. There might have been more siblings in there, you know how families in developing countries are, but those were the only three that the wife knew about."_

"Mohammed, Fathia, and Mariam?" he groaned. "Could they be more stereotypically Muslim? That's like naming your kids Michael, Jane, and Sarah."

_ "U.S. born siblings are Alexander and Sarah,"_ she informed him.

"I hate this family."

_"Speaking of names, does Little Boy DiNozzo have one yet?"_

"Does Baby Cunningham have one?" he shot back.

_"Why, so you can steal it?"_ she asked. _"Baby Cunningham doesn't even have a gender yet, so no, no name."_

"Ideas?"

_ "You really are trying to steal a name, aren't you? Is it that difficult for you and your wife to agree on something?"_

"You've met Ziva."

_"Touche. But back to the question at hand, we haven't talked much about names yet. Jeff mentioned Jackson after my grandfather if it's a boy. If you steal that, I swear to God I will hurt you."_

"Ziva and I have already put Jackson off the table. It's Gibbs' dad's name."

_"Ah. Well, the Iraq roommate who's made it into this conversation much more than expected is more pregnant than Ziva. They're having a boy and going with James. I don't know about the middle name yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was either Cameron or Taylor. I'm sure you can steal those names, since you'll probably never meet them."_

"James Cameron or James Taylor?" he asked. Even he wouldn't do that to a kid. "Do they have a sense of humor?"

_"Not really,"_ she replied. _"But yeah, it's unfortunate. We had a friend die in Fallujah when we were all there, Cameron Taylor. He was one of Simple's platoon leaders and Colleen pronounced him dead, so they both feel connected. And a little guilty. Seriously, DiNozzo. How is it so hard for you to pick a name?"_

"It's somehow turned into a game. Or a competition. Or both."

_"I think by definition, games are competitions,"_ Kim pointed out. _"At any rate, you better pick a winner soon, because you don't have long before the game's over."_


	25. Chapter 25

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 25**

* * *

DiNozzo left Ziva the car and took the bike he despised into the office and arrived long before anyone was there, his favorite time to be at the office. He liked being around people for the company, but when it came to getting work done, nothing beat the early morning hours. Even though it was a few hours earlier than he usually arrived at work, he went through his usual morning routine of checking his email, followed by the NCIS alerts from the last twenty-four hours. Sometimes it was hard to be stationed so far from Headquarters, just because of the time zone difference. Sometimes it was nice to be away from Gibbs and Vance and all of the politics that lived in the DC area.

Kim Not-Tomblin had sent him an email of everything they discussed over the phone, which was good, because he had forgotten to bring the notes he had been taking at the kitchen counter, but also annoying, because if she could say everything she needed to say in an email, there had been no need for his phone to have rang at five. He contemplated giving her a call at her five am to see how she liked it, but knowing her, she would be up and running anyway.

Working on the computer was his least favorite part of detective work, so he was glad when Special Agent Todd Freiler, his junior field agent, came into the office a few minutes before seven. "I got a job for you," he said as soon as Freiler stored his SIG in his desk drawer.

"Sure," the younger man replied, as always agreeable. It was almost no fun making fun of him or making him do grunt work, because nothing ever seemed to bother him. Almost.

DiNozzo explained the advances that have been in the case since the last time they discussed the case, which was actually quite a lot, and then forwarded the email from Kim. "Did you search the UN databases yet?" Freiler asked, his attention already focused on the computer screen in front of him. DiNozzo just gave him a silent look until he looked up. "Right. You were waiting for me to do it."

"Someday you'll be a team leader, and you'll understand," DiNozzo said sagely.

"I don't think anyone will ever understand you," Gabi Stone commented as she entered the office. "Wow. Everyone's here early today. You guys know we don't actually start the workday until eight, right?"

"Daylight savings time," DiNozzo said.

"It's June," she replied.

"Quiet, or you'll be enjoying an all-expense-paid trip to Somalia."

"I don't think 'enjoying' is the word to use there," Stone replied. "What's going on? Al-Shabaab or more of this case from Headquarters? Or both?"

"Definitely the case from Headquarters, maybe both," he explained. "Your old FLETC buddy thinks that if their dead engineer is the Al-Shabaab engineer who was playing with chemical weapons—"

"Mustards," Freiler interrupted.

"Which are chemical weapons," DiNozzo pointed out. Freiler shrugged. "If they're one in the same, she thinks it's because someone was blackmailing him because of something in his family's past. Somalian terrorists and Somalian refugees means that that past was probably something in Somalia."

"So we're trying to figure out what kind of people this family was before they were refugees," Stone summed up.

"Right," DiNozzo agreed.

"I'm going to see if I can find them in the UN refugee database," Freiler said. "It's a place to start."

"Is Mossad helping?" Gabi asked, directing the question at DiNozzo.

"Last I saw anyone from Mossad, she was refusing to get out of bed, so I have no idea."

"Is Ziva feeling okay?" Gabi asked, now concerned.

"Women claim they can do everything, but ask them to grow one person and all of a sudden they're not even capable of waking up at five to work out."

"Please say that to Ziva next time I'm around. I would love to see her reaction."

DiNozzo snorted. "Do I look like an idiot? Don't answer that," he added warningly. "Once we have a little bit more about Khalid's family, I'm going to give Chad a call to see if he's free to go to Somalia and look into things." Unlike Ziva's operatives, who worked under deep cover to blend into whichever group they were infiltrating, NCIS agents, including Chad Dunham, tended to go undercover as international businessmen: nice suits, nice hotels, and most importantly, cell phones with international calling plans. Dunham was available whenever DiNozzo or anybody else needed him, 24/7.

"Easier said than done," Gabi commented. "He's deep in the middle of an arms deal, remember?"

"That's right," DiNozzo groaned. How could he forget? It was the largest thing they had going on in this office. He was letting McGee's case and Not-Tomblin's stubbornness get in the way of the work he was supposed to be doing. The work he was supposed to be doing, and the kid he was supposed to be preparing for.

Ziva was due in less than a month, and all the kid had was one bassinet and a room full of…stuff. Stuff he didn't understand and should probably familiarize himself with before said kid arrived.

Said kid needed a name.

He frowned at the train of thought and refocused on the issue at hand, which at the moment was Somalia and the Khalid family and Dunham's arms deal. "Okay," he finally said with a sigh. "Freiler, look into Daddy Khalid's background. If there's something there that's going to require someone to actually go to Somalia, we'll cross that bridge when we find it. Gabi, what's the current status of Chad's deal?"

"He has a meeting in," she checked her watch, "three and a half hours. We should have him live in the SCIF for monitoring, if all goes through. Our SEAL team is on standby if anything goes awry. If things don't go awry, he should be meeting the head of the operation early next week."

"Good. You have the lead on that one." She blinked in surprise, prompting him to quickly add, "But I still want to know if anything does go awry and you send in the SEALs to rescue Chad or capture any bad guys. I'm going to go upstairs and see if I can trick Dardik into doing a little research for us."

"Trick him?" Freiler asked dubiously.

"You know, by neglecting to tell him that Ziva doesn't know that I'm asking him," DiNozzo replied as he rose from his chair. "The usual."

"I feel sorry for your kid already," Gabi observed.

* * *

DiNozzo ended up not seeing his wife until he got home from work that evening, only realizing as he crossed the threshold of the house that Ziva didn't bring him lunch that day. "Hey," he called out.

"In the baby's room," was the muffled reply. He followed her directions to find his very pregnant wife standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over her chest as she studied…something.

"Hi," he greeted again, kissing her on the cheek.

"Hi," she replied distractedly. He frowned, following her line of sight toward the box that contained the pieces that would become a crib.

"Something wrong?" he finally asked.

"I cannot figure out how the room should be set up," she admitted. "I do not know if the crib should be here and the changing table there, or if this would be a better place for the rocking chair, or—"

"Does it have to be figured out now, or could we wait until we—and by that I mean I—get some more furniture put together?"

"Well, then you should hurry about that," she declared. He frowned.

"Do you know something I don't?" he asked cautiously.

"I had a doctor's appointment this afternoon." That's right. At least he didn't have to feel guilty about missing it; he was there for the first appointment and when they found out it was a boy, but other than that, Ziva made it very clear that she would rather him be at work getting stuff done than sitting there holding her hand during yet another routine doctor's appointment.

"Did Dr. Rahma say anything I should be worried about?"

"No," she said dismissively. "My blood pressure was a little high, but she was not concerned. She just reminded me that I will be thirty-seven weeks tomorrow, and that is full term."

"Which means the baby can come whenever he wants."

"Yes. Although if he is as punctual as you, we still have a while."

"You've made that joke already."

"It is still true. She also said that I will have appointments once a week now until I go into labor."

"So you have to go to the doctor on the Fourth of July."

"That is not a holiday in Bahrain, Tony."

"I know, Ziva." He gave her a brief glower and she smirked at him. "Did you go to work today?"

"No," she replied. "I got busy with things here and I did not want to go in." He really wished he had that luxury; then again, working with Cohen wasn't exactly a luxury.

"Busy with things here?" he asked with a frown. She put on a knowing smirk and walked out of the nursery, leaving a confused DiNozzo in her wake.

It wasn't until they were almost at the kitchen that he registered that the previously-bare hallway walls now had pictures on them. "Wait a second," he muttered, stopping abruptly at a picture. "Where'd you get my official picture from Peoria?" It was his first law enforcement job, twenty-two and right out of college. He couldn't believe how young he looked in his uniform, a cocky smirk on his face. At least the picture hanging next to it was a good one—a young Ziva in her IDF uniform, looking far too sexy for eighteen years old.

"It came today," she said enigmatically.

"From where?" he asked.

"Do you want to see what else came today?" He didn't quite know what to make of that look on her face; it was almost teasing, but not the usual sexually-charged teasing she doled out when she wanted to make him suffer. She seemed almost hesitant, and that made him nervous.

"Depends," he said slowly. "Am I going to like it?"

She shrugged her shoulders and continued walking, leaving him no choice but to follow as she walked into the living room, stopping in the center of the room. "What?" he asked before his eyes fell on something that had most definitely not been there that morning. "Is that…" he began, his voice trailing off as he tried to comprehend the parlor grand piano that now stood in a previously empty corner of the room.

"Your mother's piano," she said quietly. He crossed to it, still trying to comprehend what it was doing there or why. He pressed a key experimentally, hearing a note and confirming to himself that it was real. "It still needs to be tuned, obviously," Ziva continued. "I think it looks nice there."

"How did it get here?" he finally asked.

"Your father sent it. A late wedding gift, he said. He said it would have been here sooner had you told him that we were married."

"You talked to him?"

"I called him as they were assembling the piano, to thank him," she said defensively.

"You didn't tell him…" He stopped at the look on her face. "You did, didn't you?"

"That he will have a grandson?" Ziva asked hotly. "Yes, I did."

"Ziva!"

"He is your father, Tony!"

"He certainly never has been much of one!"

"Well, it is not as if I could have told my own father!" He stopped suddenly at her words, wondering if this was one of those things he should have been able to see coming.

"Would you have?" he finally asked. She snorted.

"There would not have been much of a point," she said, almost mocking. "He would have found out probably before we did. And then began planning his career in Mossad from that moment."

"That's certainly true," he muttered.

"I do not know how he would have been with grandchildren," Ziva admitted, taking a seat on the piano bench and looking suddenly defeated. "I do not know if I can see him as a doting grandfather who would play with children."

"Unless the games were designed to train a baby to be a more efficient killer." She snorted and nodded in agreement, leaning into his shoulder when he took a seat beside her.

"I think after Tali, though…"

"What?" he prompted.

"I think he learned that life is too short and that maybe it should be enjoyed," she said quietly. "It was too late for me by then, but I think he might have been a good grandfather. When he was not at the office."

He turned his head to kiss her temple. "We can still name the baby after him," he pointed out.

"No," she said automatically.

"What about for a middle name?"

"No," she said again, shaking her head. "I do not want to remember the way my father orchestrated the end of his life every time I look at our son."

"Elijah? It's close to Eli, but not quite. Daniel Elijah DiNozzo doesn't have a bad ring to it."

She chuckled and shook her head slightly. "I will think about," she said. "But not the Daniel part."

"What do you have against the name Daniel?"

"Nothing," she replied. "I just know that the only reason you like it is because Danny DiNozzo sounds like Danny DeVito."

"Kim has friends who might name their kid James Cameron or James Taylor."

"That is unfortunate," Ziva said.

"Glad we agree about that," he said with a nod. They continued to sit together on the piano bench in silence for several long minutes.

"I am ready to no longer be pregnant," Ziva said abruptly.

"I think I need a little more time to put together furniture," Tony replied. "And I don't think we've mentally prepared ourselves for this."

She chuckled. "That is probably true," she agreed.

"At least we already know what _not_ to do. Between my father and your parents, I think we have the basis covered on parenting techniques that don't work."

"That is true," she agreed. She turned to look up at him. "You will be a good father, Tony," she said softly. "I already know that."

He wished he had as much faith in himself as she had in him.


	26. Chapter 26

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 26**

_A/N: Sorry for leaving you hanging on Monday; I was hanging out at a conference and too busy to write (sad, I know). Good news is that now that I don't have exams to study for or presentations to prepare, I should be able to dedicate some more time to writing (yay!). Bad news (for you, not for me) is that I'm leaving for vacation in Tanzania next week to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro (yes, my life is this awesome), and I doubt I'll have much in the way of internet while climbing a mountain, so you'll be getting a brief (hopefully very brief) hiatus. I will return to you as soon as possible._

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Kazim Gardezi thanked the helicopter pilot before removing his headset and stepping out onto the Presidio of Monterey, the site of the Defense Language Institute and the current home of Private Alexander Khalid, Kaseem Khalid's younger brother and, with any luck, a key to what exactly the Khalid family dynamics were.

Waiting for Gardezi at the end of the helipad was a uniformed Army staff sergeant. "Special Agent Gardezi?" the non-commissioned officer asked.

"Yes," Gardezi replied, pulling out his credentials for the staff sergeant to examine. After a cursory glance, the staff sergeant gave a perfunctory nod and returned his gaze to Gardezi.

"I'm Sergeant Mike Kann, Private Khalid's squad leader," he introduced. Gardezi nodded.

"What can you tell me about Private Khalid?" he asked. The kid wasn't under investigation, but it always helped to have as much information about the people you were going to talk to as possible.

"Good kid," Kann said with a nod. "Good student, a bit quiet. Doesn't do anything stupid." Gardezi nodded slightly; as a former NCO himself, he knew the qualities Kann was talking about.

"Did he get leave for his brother's funeral?" Gardezi asked as they began heading toward the barracks. Kann nodded.

"You're lucky you caught him," he confirmed. "His ride leaves at noon to take him to the airport. Brother's being buried in Ohio tomorrow. What's this about, anyway? NCIS got so little to do that you gotta talk to privates whose brothers get killed?"

"I can't comment on an ongoing investigation," Gardezi replied. From the outside, it did look a little ridiculous, but there was no point in waving the terrorism flag until they had more information.

The barracks where the language students lived were nice, much nicer than the barracks Gardezi stayed in while he was in the Marine Corps, nicer even than the barracks he stayed in when he was attending the same course in the wake of 9/11. Of course, the Corps always seemed to get the short end of the stick when it came to accommodations. At least the kid wasn't in the Air Force; Gardezi wasn't sure he could handle seeing how easy they had it.

They found Private Khalid in his room, neatly folded clothes stacked on the bed and an empty green duffle bag on the floor, waiting to be filled. "Private," Kann greeted, and immediately, the kid snapped to attention. At least the Army still had some discipline.

"Sergeant," Khalid replied.

"This is NCIS Agent Gardezi," Kann introduced. "He's going to talk to you about your brother."

"Sir," Khalid acknowledged.

"At ease, Private," Gardezi commanded, and Khalid relaxed into parade rest, his hands clasped behind his back. Gardezi turned to Kann. "I have it from here," he said, dismissing the staff sergeant. Kann gave a nod before ducking out of the room.

"I'm Special Agent Kazim Gardezi, Naval Criminal Investigative Service," he introduced, showing the private his credentials. "I need to ask you some questions about your brother, Kaseem. Please, sit."

Khalid sat obediently on the bed, leaving Gardezi the single chair in the single-person barracks room. "What does NCIS have to do with Kasey's murder?" Khalid asked.

"We think it has to do with another murder we're investigating in DC, so the DC team took over the investigation from the DC police department. They asked me to come talk to you because I'm stationed in San Diego." And he was on the anti-terrorism team, but again, it was best not to wave that terrorism flag too soon. "How often did you talk to your brother?"

"Since I got here, maybe every couple of days. I didn't always have my cell phone when I was at Basic, so it wasn't as often then."

"You got your cell phone at Basic?" Gardezi asked in disbelief.

"Only for a couple of minutes on Sundays, if I didn't get in trouble," Khalid replied. Gardezi just shook his head; it was certainly a different world from his basic training. He hadn't even been allowed a first name or personal pronouns.

"So you and your brother were close, then?" Gardezi asked, getting back on track.

"Yeah," Khalid said, suddenly sad. "He was always looking out for me. When he was still living in Columbus, he came by all the time to take me out to ice cream or just hang out and talk. Same with Sarah. Our sister. And then when he moved to DC, he called a lot, made sure I was doing okay in school and everything. He was the first person I talked to about enlisting."

"What'd he think about it?"

"He thought it was a great idea," Khalid said automatically. "Thought it was a great way to give back and help get college paid for." He shrugged. "I'm not as smart as he is. I couldn't get my college paid for the way he could. And I don't think I want to spend four years sitting in classes, not right now."

"What did your parents think?"

Khalid frowned as he thought about that. "My mom cried," he finally said before shrugging again. "My parents had other kids back in Somalia, and one got killed when he joined the war. I think she thought that would happen to me. I think my dad was disappointed, but he didn't really say anything. I think they're okay with it now, now that they know I'll be speaking Somali and helping Somalis. I'm going to be attached to a SF unit for a few years and then I want to train to do civil affairs. I think that's the best way to help."

"I was a linguist for my first tour in Iraq," Gardezi said with slight nod.

"Did you like it?" Khalid asked, a touch of trepidation in his voice. Gardezi remembered that feeling, when he was at that same base in the same language program, wondering if he had made the right decision by leaving college to join the Marine Corps right after 9/11, right when the Corps needed Arab-Americans the most.

"It's hard work," Gardezi replied. "Rewarding, though." He decided not to mention the looks of betrayal he got from the Iraqis as they rolled through Baghdad during the invasion, the questions of how he could turn his back on his own people to put on an American uniform and fight against them.

If they hadn't driven his family from Iraq when he was a kid, it wouldn't have been an issue.

"How was your brother's relationship with your parents?" Gardezi asked to change the subject.

"Non-existent?" Khalid asked after thinking about it for a few seconds. "I mean, Kasey moved out to go to college when I was still really young, so I don't have great memories of him being at home, but when he came to visit when he was living in Columbus, he never really talked to them much, just a 'how're you doing?' thing. They really freaked out when he became Catholic, but I don't know why, because I think they had to have already known that he wasn't going to the mosque. There aren't a lot of mosques in Columbus, after all. By the time he moved to DC, he stopped visiting at all. I don't think he's even talked to them since then, and that was three years ago. I asked him about it once, and he said that my parents aren't the same as the ones he had. At the time, I thought maybe he was saying that he was adopted or something, but I think maybe he just means—I mean, meant—that they were just different than they were when he was a kid."

"Right," Gardezi said with a nod.

"I spent spring break out in DC a couple of years ago, after Grace was born," Khalid continued. "She was a couple of months old, and Kasey said that he didn't know how he would be able to function if anything happened to her."

"Your parents lost three kids in Somalia."

"Four," Khalid corrected. "But that was before the war. There was a baby after Mariam, but she died when she was a couple of months old. I think Kasey said it was malaria or something. Apparently that happens a lot in Somalia. But yeah. Maybe that was why Kasey said they're so different."

Gardezi nodded slightly. "What did your parents do back in Somalia?" he asked.

"Uh, I'm pretty sure my mom stayed at home. I think my dad was a banker or something."

Gardezi wrote that down in his notepad. "He's going to be buried in Ohio?"

"No, Cora said he's going to be cremated. I don't know what she's going to do with the ashes. Maybe spread them around Columbus? They really liked it there. There's going to be a memorial service there, that's why I'm flying out." He checked his watch. "Sir, do you mind if I keep packing? I gotta leave for the airport in less than an hour."

"I'll let you get back to it in a minute," Gardezi promised. "Do you mind if I get a DNA sample? Just in case maybe your brother really did mean that he was adopted."

"Oh. Okay." Gardezi pulled out a cheek swab and collected a DNA sample to courier over to Headquarters for analysis before expressing his sympathies and leaving the private to resume his packing.

A murder victim that may not have been who he claimed to be, a son who didn't understand who his parents had become, a brother who already missed his sounding board and source of advice, a DNA sample that may answer at least one of those questions.

This was going to be a fun phone call back to his boss.


	27. Chapter 27

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 27**

_A/N: I'm back! Good trip, but climbing a mountain isn't exactly a vacation. Ugh. Next time, I'm hitting the beach._

* * *

McGee slowed his car as he approached the NCIS parking garage on the Navy Yard, rolling down the window. "Kim?" he called out, realizing as soon as the syllable was out that the dark-haired woman in running clothes leaning over a garbage can might not be the San Diego field agent.

But she did straighten and turn toward his car, a look of defeat on her face. "Hey, McGee," she called back. "I'll be in in a minute."

He frowned, but rolled up his window and continuing into the garage. After he parked, he briefly considered going directly into the building, but ultimately decided that he should check on his fellow agent.

Only to find her again leaning over the garage can, obviously throwing up. For the first time, he registered the man standing next to Kim, also in running clothes, his legs replaced by prosthetics and a very large dog wearing what appeared to be a camouflage vest sitting at his side. "Are you okay?" he asked tentatively.

"She'll be fine," the man answered for her. "My wife had issues with morning sickness, too. Puke a couple of times, get it out of the way, and then fine for the rest of the day."

"I'm not Colleen, asshole," Kim said to him. "Give me your water."

"I told you to bring your own."

"I don't care that you don't have legs, I will knock you on your ass." He rolled his eyes and handed over a small bottle from his belt. "Thank you," she said with exaggerated politeness.

"You're pregnant?" McGee blurted out, just catching up to the conversation.

"Everyone's pregnant," the man said. "Tomblin, Colleen, Signe. Hammer's new kid's less than a year old. I hope to God Gorsuch didn't knock anybody up. Maybe we should check with the Rodriguezes."

"No, he got that taken care of," Kim informed him. "Five is apparently the magic number."

"I thought Catholics weren't supposed to do that?"

"I thought you were Catholic?" she shot back.

"Yeah, but Colleen's a doctor."

"So's Ronnie."

"Well, Colleen's a real doctor."

"I'm pretty sure a Ph.D. in nuclear engineering counts for something."

"So, you're really pregnant?" McGee asked again, giving up on trying to follow their conversation. Kim sighed and turned back to him as she took another sip of water.

"Yes, I'm really pregnant," she said slowly. "It's supposed to be this whole big miraculous thing, but really, I hate this kid already. It's too much of a pain."

"Really? The kid of Tomblin and Cunningham being difficult? Who would have thought?" the man asked sarcastically.

"Quiet," Kim commanded. "Oh," she said suddenly. "McGee, Major Jon Simple. We were in Iraq together and then he married my roommate. Simple, Special Agent McGee. He's the senior field agent of the team here in DC."

"Nice to meet you," the man—Major Simple—greeted, offering his hand. "Tomblin stayed with us last night and then dragged me out on a run. She made the whole eight miles here before puking."

"You ran eight miles?" McGee asked.

"Yeah, I have a race this weekend, so we took it easy."

"A race?"

"This is going to get really tedious if you repeat everything that we say," Kim commented. "Simple's on the paratriathlon circuit. He probably spends more time doing that than his real job. And speaking of real jobs, Simple, you should probably get to yours at some point. The Metro's right over there. I need to go up and hit the showers. Bye, Rusty, it was good running with you." She bent down to scratch the large dog behind the ears.

"C'mon, buddy, time for the Metro," Major Simple said to the dog. "It was nice meeting you," he said to McGee. "Good luck with the case. Tomblin, I'll see you tonight." Kim nodded and gave a slight wave before heading toward the building.

"You sure you're okay?" McGee asked with concern as he followed her.

"I'm fine, McGee," she replied impatiently. "If I let morning sickness keep me from work, I wouldn't have done anything for the last three months."

She immediately headed for the locker rooms and McGee took the stairs up to the bullpen, feeling too lazy and slightly inadequate to take the elevator after learning that a pregnant woman and a double amputee ran further that morning that he had ever done.

It was probably less than 15 minutes after she entered the building that Kim came into the bullpen, now in khakis and a tee-shirt, black hair in a French braid. "I called DiNozzo to fill him in before I went to bed last night," she said without preamble, leaning against Wilson's desk with arms crossed. He couldn't really blame her for not sitting; the TAD agent desk on the other side of the partition from the probie desk was positioned just right to have visibility of no one on the team. "He scolded me for calling him at zero five, but that's beside the point. He said he'll look into the Khalid family and their time in Somalia to see if he can find a reason somebody would want to be blackmailing them."

"But we don't know that anybody was," McGee pointed out.

"No, we don't," she agreed. "But it's the most logical conclusion right now." She glanced at her watch. "In a few hours, my junior agent will be up at Monterey interviewing Private Khalid. Maybe he'll tell us that his big brother was a terrorist. Who knows?"

"Who knows?" McGee muttered in replied. Lately, that seemed to be the description of his life.

* * *

After listening to the third cold call to Jake Clarks that Agent Ruiz had made, Kim Cunningham put on her ridiculously expensive noise-cancelling headphones and plugged them into her iPhone. It was time to do some concentrating, and hearing one side of awkward conversations wasn't really helping. Her incredibly random selection of music on her iPhone was much better.

She ventured from her desk only long enough to grab lunch from one of the food trucks parked outside the Navy Yard, and then went right back to work, trying to find connections between Carter, Khalid, Al-Shabaab, national landmarks, and chemical warfare, and she had so many diagrams scratched out on paper that her desk was beginning to resemble something out of _A Beautiful Mind_. "Gardezi," she greeted when her phone rang, grateful for the change of pace and her fingers literally crossed that he had something for them. "How was Monterey?"

_"Good,"_ he replied. _"I caught Private Khalid as he was packing for his brother's memorial service."_

"Do you mind if I put you on speaker?" she asked as she got up and walked over to McGee's desk. To her surprise, Gibbs was also seated at his desk; she hadn't even noticed him come in. "It'll be easier than repeating everything."

_"Sure,"_ he replied.

"Gardezi, I've got Special Agents Gibbs, McGee, and Wilson, the supervisory, senior, and junior field agents on the Headquarters team. Agent Ruiz might come in later; she's busy making phone calls at the moment. Gentlemen, Special Agent Kazim Gardezi is my junior field agent. He was up at Monterey this morning to talk to Kaseem Khalid's younger brother," she introduced.

"Nice to meet you," McGee greeted.

_"Thank you, sir,"_ Gardezi's disembodied voice replied. _"As Skip—Special Agent Cunningham—said, I spoke to Private Alexander Khalid to get some information about the family dynamics. According to his brother, Kaseem Khalid was close to his younger siblings, but not to his parents. Private Khalid doesn't think his brother has as much spoken to their parents since he moved to the DC area."_

"Some sort of fall-out?"

_"Khalid wasn't sure,"_ was the response. _"He said he asked his brother about it once, and the reply was, 'my parents aren't the same he had.'"_

"Was Khalid adopted?" McGee asked. "Maybe that's the secret he didn't want to get out, that the Khalids smuggled him out of Somalia on their refugee card."

_"I got a DNA sample from Khalid to confirm or deny that they were really brothers,"_ Gardezi replied. _"It's being couriered to you. It should make it there by tonight, but probably after you leave work."_

"I'm sure Abby'll get to it tomorrow," Cunningham commented. "I think that's a long-shot, though. That wasn't the impression I got from talking to the wife."

"Maybe he didn't tell his wife," Wilson said.

"You don't get the kind of strong emotions that she was talking about, about a family you don't have connections to," she replied. "There was some real survivor's guilt there. Kazi, did Private Khalid say what his father did in Somalia?"

_"He was a banker,"_ Gardezi replied.

"Any connection to the rebellion?"

_"He wouldn't have known. He's not even completely sure his father was a banker. I didn't get the impression reminiscing about Somalia was high on the list of activities of the Khalid family."_

"Okay," Cunningham replied. "What else did you get from him?"

_"The parents didn't respond well to Kaseem becoming Catholic?"_

"Can you blame them?"

_"I like to think I'd be able to keep an open mind if one of my kids decided to follow a different faith. But I can see where you're coming from. There would be a lot of traditions and rituals that they would no longer be part of."_

Cunningham frowned. Traditions and rituals. Mrs. Khalid had said that her husband wasn't involved with the Somali community and didn't go to the mosque or to any festivals, the things that defined a culture. In a way, he had turned his back on not only the physical location he came from, but also its entire culture and everything that distinguished a Somali from anybody else. "Kazi, is there usually a response in Sunni communities when someone leaves like that?"

_"I think it would have to depend on the community,"_ he said after thinking about it for a few seconds. _"Muslim communities in general are closer knit here in the States than they are overseas, especially in refugee settlement cities. It's the thing that binds people together. Let me do some research about Columbus and see what I come up with."_

"Okay, thanks," she replied. She would do the same, but Gardezi had the perspective of being a raised and practicing Muslim—and one who immigrated into a Muslim-American community as a kid—and that tended to lead to him seeing things she didn't. "Anyone else have any questions?"

McGee asked a follow-up question that really answered itself, and neither Gibbs nor Wilson had anything to offer, so Cunningham took over again. "Shoot me an AAR and let me know if there's anything else you come across. Thanks again, Gardezi."

_"Anything to get me out of the office,"_ he replied.

Cunningham returned to her temporary desk and took a seat, still thinking through the things that they discussed. She really didn't think that Khalid had been literal when he said that he and his brother had different parents, but they would know for sure by the end of the next day. She honestly couldn't see someone blackmailing him, or tracking him down in DC to kill him, just because he began to go to a different church, but they'd look into it. She had a feeling that she couldn't explain that it had something to do with his father being a banker.

It was like she said to Wilson as they drove back from Arlington the afternoon before—everything went back to land and money, if you could trace it back that far. And if you followed the money, you'd usually find what you were looking for.


	28. Chapter 28

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 28**

* * *

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs did something uncharacteristic for him: he hesitated. He hesitated long enough at the door of the brick Chevy Chase house that it opened without him doing anything about it. "She's still mad at you," Maddie Gracy said matter-of-factly.

"Not surprised," he replied.

"I'm not mad at you, though, so you can come in," the ten-year-old declared as she stepped aside to let him in. "Are you going to come to my meet this weekend? I'm swimming the mile on Sunday."

"That's a long way to swim."

"I've done in it practice," she replied with a shrug. "Mom said that we're not moving this summer because it's my first summer with my new team. Did you know that Katie Ledecky is on my team? She's going to the Olympics in a few weeks. She's going to swim the 800, because girls don't swim the mile at the Olympics. I wanted to go to London to watch but Mom said no. Did you know that Mom almost swam in the Olympics?"

"That's not really true, Maddie," Sonja Gracy interjected as she came out of the kitchen. "Go outside and keep an eye on your brother."

"But Mom—"

"Madeline." Maddie frowned at the tone in her mother's voice before she rolled her eyes and headed for the back door through the kitchen.

"McGee said you've been pulling disappearing acts at work," Dr. Gracy said as she turned and walked toward the kitchen.

"No, he didn't," Gibbs countered, following.

"No, he didn't," she acknowledged. "I suppose you'd like a beer."

"Thanks."

She popped the cap of the bottle and handed it over. "Anything new on that case I helped with?"

"Not really," he said honestly.

Gracy sighed and took a sip out of the glass of wine on the counter. "Why are you here, Gibbs?" she finally asked, exasperated. "You didn't come to apologize, because that's a sign of weakness—"

"Nothing to apologize for," he replied.

"And you're an ass," she finished. "I don't get it. All I did was tell you about my PCS—"

"I don't want you leave."

His admission rendered her speechless, but only for a few seconds. "Goddammit, Gibbs, I have a career," she swore as she pushed her auburn hair behind an ear, not meeting his eye. "One that might actually be going places, which is a nice change from a few years ago, but I can't do that if I stay in the same deputy director position I've been in. And I want to go to Germany. It's always been the plan. It was supposed to happen years ago, when Scott got back from Iraq, but then he didn't make it back and life took a detour. That happens. I get it. But it's time for me to start thinking about getting on the main road again. And this position is a damn good way of doing that."

"I know."

"Then what do you expect me to do?" she asked in frustration.

"Nothing."

She threw her arms in the air. "I can't deal with enigmatic Gibbs, not right now," she declared. "If you want to talk, then by all means, start talking. If not, go home and work on your boat and at least pretend to be productive."

"I'm going to retire." She was again stunned speechless, her light brown eyes wide with confusion. "Hell, don't really have much of a choice. Mandatory retirement age for field agents is fifty-five, and I know Vance doesn't like me nearly enough to make me an exception to the rule." His dryly spoken words got a thin smile and slight nod from her. "Not much point of staying, anyway. DiNozzo and Ziva are in Bahrain and McGee's probably going to be following his girlfriend to Yuma."

"Really?"

"He doesn't think anybody knows about it."

"But you can't sneak one by the great Gibbs," she said dryly. They lapsed into a long stretch of silence. "So what are you going to do?" she finally asked. He shrugged; he hadn't really figured that out, either.

"Could always go back to Mexico. I was thinking of maybe going to Germany."

Her eyes widened even further. "You're thinking..." She shook her head slightly. "We've never talked about..."

"I know."

"I mean, I know I'm not good at such conversations, because I'm German and we don't tend to talk about our feelings, and you're, well, you..." Her voice trailed off as she again looked off to the side, pushing her hair back. "This isn't just a matter of you and me, Gibbs. There's Maddie and Nate to think about, too."

"I know."

"I'm not going to agree to anything unless I know it's for real."

"I know."

"And I'm not going to say anything to them unless I'm absolutely certain you aren't going to change your mind in a week."

"I know."

She sighed in frustration. "Gibbs. You're being enigmatic again."

"What do you want?"

"I want to go back to my nice and peaceful Thursday evening with nothing to think about. I want to make sure Maddie and Nate are packed for their meet this weekend. I want my life to make sense again." The more she spoke, the faster and more forceful her words became. "This was never the plan, Gibbs. I was never supposed to be a single parent dealing with dating and my career and my kids and trying to do all of them right."

"I know."

"You're really not helping," she scolded before sighing again. "I'm tired, Gibbs. I'm on call this week and was called into work at three this morning. I really can't deal with this. I need some time to think."

"Take your time," he said as he finished his beer. "You know how to reach me when you figure it out."

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Sofia Ruiz was getting frustrated by her team's current case. After making cold calls to Jake Clarks all day, she was no closer to figuring out who killed Vanessa Carter. Or Kaseem Khalid. Or if there really was a terrorism plot for the Fourth of July. And that was frustrating.

Maybe there was something they missed at the first crime scene. There had to be. There was no way to kill someone and leave no trace. The DNA was a dead end until they had a suspect, the footprints Gibbs had seen had gone nowhere... There had to be something they missed.

Not that she blamed McGee, but he just didn't seem to be on top of his game with this case, and if there was one thing the senior field agent needed to be, it was attentive. But he wasn't. He was distracted by his girlfriend being in town, and then he let that agent from San Diego just take over the case. She hadn't been working with him long, but even she knew this wasn't like him.

So if he wasn't acting like himself, maybe they really did miss something at the first crime scene.

Ruiz had been with NCIS long enough to know procedures for things, and visiting a crime scene alone was definitely against procedure. But the crime scene had been released, hadn't it? Therefore, she wouldn't be visiting a crime scene, just a memorial in the middle of a national park. And that was definitely okay. After all, they couldn't tell her not to visit the Mall, could they?

Decision made, she slipped on her flip flops where she had left them, by the front door, and grabbed her purse and made her way out of her apartment. Since she lived in DC, it was usually more of a hassle then it was worth to drive anywhere; she headed in the direction of the Metro station six blocks away instead.

After getting off the train at the Smithsonian station, she headed over to the Reflecting Pool, right where Carter's body had been found. For a long several minutes, she just stood there, getting a feel for the space and trying to figure out what Carter could have been thinking or what she might have been looking for. She had been looking for evidence of a terrorist attack on the Mall; therefore, Ruiz needed to look for the same thing. She frowned as she studied the landscape; tourists, museums, monuments... Nothing to suggest any sort of terrorist attack, and nothing that she could identify as possibly being used in one.

_Focus_, she ordered herself, reminding herself to look at the details. There was scaffolding around the Smithsonian Castle, where they were doing renovations of some sort. Scaffolding could be used to hide a bomb. So could the giant fence around the Reflecting Pool, for that matter.

She frowned and again turned in the direction of the Reflecting Pool. It was where Carter was found, after all, and if she had been killed for something she found, it would certainly be the place to look. There was a white van parked across the Mall from where Ruiz stood, the logo on the side identifying it as one of the many contractors in the greater DC area. On a whim, she headed that way and knocked on the door of the van.

"I'm Special Agent Sofia Ruiz of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, and we're investigating a crime that took place here Saturday night," she said when the door opened to reveal a slight African-American man. "Were you here that night? Did you see anything? Hey, what are those canisters—"

Before she could even finish asking what it was that the van was carrying, the man had traveled the two feet to stab her directly in the heart. She was dead by the time she hit the pavement.


	29. Chapter 29

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 29**

* * *

Kim Cunningham groaned as her hand closed over the ringing BlackBerry. "This better be good, Gibbs," she said warningly.

_"We got another case,"_ he informed here.

"That's nice," she replied. "I suppose the fact that you're calling me means that I need to remind you that I'm here to help you with your existing cases, not play special agent on anything you have rolling across your desk."

_"It's Ruiz,"_ he replied. _"She was killed down on the Mall. By the Reflecting Pool."_

"Fuck," Cunningham groaned. She glanced at the clock in Simple and Colleen's guest bedroom: 0348, far too early to be dealing with this and far too early for the Metro to be running. "You're going to have to send someone to pick me up," she informed him. "I'm staying with friends in Alexandria and didn't check out a vehicle from the motor pool."

_"Text Wilson the address,"_ Gibbs ordered before he hung up.

"I'll do that," Cunningham muttered into the dead line.

Twenty minutes later, her BlackBerry rang again, this time with Agent Wilson on the other end telling her he was right out front. Cunningham grabbed her gear bag and headed out to meet him. "Ruiz, huh?" she asked as she slid into the passenger seat.

"That's what the boss says," Wilson replied grimly.

"What was she doing, trying to investigate on her own?" Cunningham asked. "Isn't that the working theory on how Carter got killed?"

"I don't know," was the last thing Wilson said during the drive.

To Cunningham's surprise, they had been preceeded by not only the crime scene van, but also the ME van and a smattering of private and NCIS vehicles, and after parking a safe distance away, she and Wilson grabbed their gear and made their way over to join the party.

"Time of death?" Gibbs was asking as they came into earshot.

"Probably between ten and midnight," Dr. Gracy replied. Cunningham frowned and looked around for Ducky, finding the elderly medical examiner helping Jimmy Palmer with the gurney. "It was quick. The knife entered straight into the left ventricle. She bleed out before she hit the ground." Cunningham frowned; it was the exact same way Burley had been killed, by a Mossad double agent. She certainly didn't suspect that Elisheva Cremieux had anything to do with this case-she had confirmed the neat single shot that Ziva David had put through Shava's skull-but that particular cause of death did trigger some unpleasant memories.

She needed a job where people she knew didn't just turn up dead.

"Same knife that killed Khalid?" Gibbs asked. Dr. Gracy snorted.

"You should know better than to ask," she admonished. "We might have an answer for you by the end of the day. Which, by the way, is starting too early."

"You said you were on call."

"The nice thing about NCIS is that you guys have your own ME and don't require the AFMES to cover your crime scenes," she shot back as she removed a blue glove with a resolute snap. "Let me know when you guys are done with photos with the body so we can take it." And then she turned and walked away.

"Huh," Cunningham murmured to herself.

"Hmm?" McGee asked next to her. She frowned and looked up at him; she hadn't even noticed him enter the crime scene.

"Nothing," she replied. She didn't really feel like getting into her observations about problems in his boss' relationship. "Wilson and I just got here, too, so there's not much I can tell you other than she was probably killed between ten and midnight by a knife to the heart," she filled him in. She glanced around the area they were standing in, the crime scene lights illuminating the space to near-midday levels. "Is this were Carter was found?"

"Uh, actually, she was over on the other side of the Memorial," he replied, gesturing past the Atlantic side of the WWII Memorial. "If Ruiz was here to give the crime scene a second look, I don't know what she was doing over here."

"Unless she saw something. Or someone," Cunningham pointed out. "Well, we know she saw at least one person."

"How do you know that?"

"Because she was killed, McGee," Cunningham said with exaggerated slowness. "Unless you think someone just threw a knife and it ended up hitting her in the heart before flying out on its own accord." McGee murmured something unintelligible in reply. "Right," she said dryly. "Well, I'm going to take a look around and see what I see."

Her first visit to the WWII Memorial had been during her trip east with Jeff after they returned from deployment; that day, she had sat on the cold marble on the Pacific side and told Jeff's half-brother Michael about her grandfathers and what they had done during the war. This morning, though, she forwent her usual rituals and focused on the big picture. Two women had been killed on opposite sides of this memorial; there must have been a reason why.

Then again, one had been a broken neck and the other a stabbing. Nowhere near the same MO. She made a mental note to chat with Ducky about the psychology of either type of murder and get his professional opinion about whether or not they could be related. If they weren't, it was time for her to swing by a gas station and buy some lottery tickets, because the odds of two women working for the same obscure federal agency killed near the same national landmark while investigating the same thing and the deaths not being related had to be somewhere in the "winning the lottery" range.

She did believe in coincidence, but statistically, this would be one hell of one.

She scolded herself to focus and took a deep breath to help herself do that. Ruiz was obviously downtown to try to figure out what had gotten Carter killed, but what was it that had gotten Carter killed? You can't sneak up on someone and break her neck, which meant she had let her guard down enough for someone to get that close. Either someone she knew, or someone she was having a conversation with. She made a mental note to ask a coworker or friend or family member if Carter was the type of person to strike up conversation with random strangers. Jeff used to do that; it used to drive Kim nuts, because two deployments to Iraq had taught her that strangers were best left alone, because you can't trust anyone.

He stopped that practice after a random stranger kidnapped him and sent him to Yemen.

Cunningham frowned, forcing her mind back to the crime scene and what it could mean. She walked to where McGee said Carter had been found and looked around.

She had no idea what she was looking for.

She raised her camera and took pictures, knowing none of them would come out right, with the crime scene lights and the midnight darkness, but it got her doing something. She lowered the camera with a frown, her eyes falling on Ducky and Jimmy as they loaded Ruiz into the ME van. "What're you thinking?" McGee asked, again appearing beside her without any warning.

"If Ruiz was trying to give Carter's crime scene a second look, what would make her go from here to there?" she asked, pointing vaguely in Ducky's direction.

"She must have seen something that she thought would help the investigation," McGee replied.

"Do we have any security cameras in the area?"

He shook his head. "Just traffic cams," he replied. "We checked when we first looked into Carter's death."

"Maybe there's something on that angle," Cunningham said. "Ruiz saw something that made her walk from over here to over there. Something that she thought would help solve the case."

* * *

This case—or, really, these cases—were really messing with Abby Sciuto's sleep-wake cycles. Which with the massive amounts of caffeine she usually consumed weren't all that regular to begin with, but this was getting ridiculous.

She was still at work the evening before when the courier delivered the DNA sample from Private Khalid, and even though she knew a DNA extraction would take hours, she decided to stay and get started. And then right before she was at the satisfying last step, she got a call that there was another case.

It was almost enough to make her relieved she no longer bothered to learn the probies' names.

Since she knew the forensics from the latest crime scene wouldn't be coming in for a few hours, she went ahead and finished Khalid's DNA and compared it to the other Khalid and confirmed that the two really were brothers, so there went the whole "secret adoption" theory out the window. She was sure McGee would be disappointed; he seemed so hopeful about that being a cause for blackmail when he came down to hang out before going home the evening before.

As soon as the thought of McGee entered her head, he was there, with a box of stuff. "Here's the evidence from the crime scene," he greeted, removing one of the transfer of evidence forms from a drawer before she could say anything. "We also have Ruiz's purse in there. Uh, her car wasn't near the crime scene, so she probably has a Metro card in there somewhere. Jimmy'll probably be bringing the rest of her clothes once they get the autopsy going. And it was a stabbing, so Gracy'll probably be in to talk about knives at some point."

"Okay," she said with a perfunctory nod as she began looking through the bags of evidence. Most of it looked like the stuff they collected from the Carter crime scene: not much. "I finished the Khalid DNA comparison. The brothers really are brothers."

"You're sure?" he asked, his voice and face both displaying his disappointment.

"Are you questioning me, McGee?" she demanded. "Of course I'm sure! I compared both the Y chromosome and mitochondrial DNA. They have the same father and same mother. No question about it. You're going to have to look for another reason somebody would have been blackmailing Khalid. The elder Khalid brother. Unless someone's blackmailing the younger Khalid brother, too."

"Not that I know of," McGee said with a sigh. "Okay. Thanks, Abby."

"I'll give you a call if I get anything with this," she promised. He nodded in agreement before heading for the elevator, his head slightly down in disappointment or fatigue or both. "Poor McGee," she sympathized, giving herself a second to feel sorry for the senior field agent before she fully turned her attention to the new box of evidence.

Pretty sure that she wouldn't find anything among the stuff they found near the crime scene, she grabbed the purse first, dusting the outside for prints and collecting them before she opened it to get started. Just as McGee predicted, Ruiz had had a Metro card in her wallet, which Abby entered into the system to get the history before continuing with the purse. There was the standard stuff in there—keys, lipstick, chapstick, small thing of lotion, a bunch of receipts Abby would look through in greater detail later—and, of course, her phone.

Abby plugged it in to get the call log, checked the text messages to see nothing exciting, and then opened up the pictures.

And immediately grabbed her phone to call upstairs to the bullpen.

Before she could punch in the first number, she heard the dinging of the arriving elevator, and then: "What've you got, Abs?"


	30. Chapter 30

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 30**

* * *

Abby spun quickly to face Gibbs at his question, her light eyes wide. "Wow, Gibbs, that was amazing," she said, her words coming out quickly in that overly-caffeinated, overly-excited way that they did. "I was just calling you, see?" she continued, holding up the phone as evidence.

"So what've you got?" he asked again.

"A cell phone," she said quickly, returning the receiver to its cradle. "Or, rather, the pictures on a cell phone. One picture in particular." She just about bounced over to the computer, plugging a phone into it and pressing a few buttons until a picture appeared on the big screen. "See?"

"I see a van," Gibbs said, wondering what the point was.

"Yes!" Abby exclaimed. "I mean, yes, it's a van, but it's not just any van. It's the van Ruiz took a picture of at," she checked something on the computer, "10:03 last night."

"Last thing she took a picture of," Gibbs commented.

"And if I'm looking at this right, that van is parked right about where you found her body, right?" Abby asked.

"Looks about right," Gibbs agreed, his eyes still on the van on Abby's plasma screen. If Abby was right, that was the last thing Ruiz had seen, the thing that prompted her to leave Carter's crime scene and possibly the thing that held her murderer. "Do we have plates on the van?"

"Let's see," Abby said, and Gibbs watched on the big screen as she highlighted around the plate to zoom it in. "Cell phone cameras have gotten better recently. Like, a lot better. Do you remember the first camera phones? Of course you do. You still have one of those phones. Well, since then—"

"Abs."

"Sorry, Gibbs. Here's the plate. I'll shoot it up to McGee. It looks like there was also a logo on the van." He was still watching the screen as she zoomed out and zoomed back in, this time focusing on the logo on the side of the van. "It looks like it says 'Capitol Industrial Clean'," she read for him, even though he could read the words himself. "I bet McGee can get background on them."

"It's fake." Both Gibbs and Abby turned to the entrance of the lab, where Kim Cunningham was standing, her dark hair still braided from the crime scene but her face much more pale. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," she said quickly. "I was just in the locker room—never mind. It's fake."

"What is?" Gibbs asked.

"The company," Cunningham explained. "Capitol. With an O. That makes it a building. Capital, as in a city, is spelled with an A. So unless they do industrial cleaning of the U.S. Capitol, which I'm pretty sure would involve security clearances and probably better equipment than that van, it's fake."

"So maybe it was just somebody who didn't know the difference," Abby pointed out. "Grammar doesn't really seem to be a priority these days. I don't think anyone who posts comments to online articles knows the difference between your and you're."

"Oh, don't even get me started on your and you're," Cunningham said with a roll of her eyes. "I read cover letters and resumes at the vet center. It's amazing how few people get it right. But a legit business would have someone look over that stuff and fix the mistake." She must have interpreted their silence as disbelief, because she explained, "My brother Kevan is a mechanic. Large machinery. Did that for the Corps and now works for John Deere back home, and he's good. Good enough that he was looking into cutting out the middle man and going into business for himself before they found out they were having twins and realized they couldn't back away from the health insurance. Cute kids, by the way, but then again, that's true for all my nieces and nephews. Anyway, Kevan's as good as it gets at taking things apart and putting them back together to make them work better, but he's not exactly an intellectual. He thought all he would have to do was put up a sign and a webpage and business would be rolling in. He didn't realize that he would have to be incorporated and that there was all sorts of legal stuff and finance stuff at the bank before that could happen. The bank looked over all his paperwork and their lawyers fixed just about everything. I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to fix the spelling of his first name." At the blank looks she got, she just shrugged. "My mom likes non-traditional spellings. It's more of a pain than it's worth. Not a mistake I'll be repeating."

"I think it's a magnet," Abby said suddenly. Gibbs frowned when he turned to her. "The logo," she said impatiently, going back to the picture and again zooming in. "I'm going to have to work on enhancing it to be sure, because it came from a cell phone camera, but I'm pretty sure the logo is magnetic."

"So we're looking for a white van that may or may not have a logo for a company that may or may not real," Cunningham summed up. "This is going to be a fun BOLO."

* * *

Nobody was really all that surprised when McGee ran the plates from the van and discovered that they were stolen off a Volkswagen Passat registered to an older couple in Arlington, Virginia. When they gave them a call, they were greeted with an answering machine message saying that they were on a cruise in the South Pacific and would be returning in early August. "A cruise in the South Pacific for over a month," Wilson commented. "I can't wait to get old and retire and get to do stuff like that."

"Good luck doing that on your government employee salary," Kim Cunningham commented as she studied an intelligence report on her tablet, now sitting at the probie desk, since Ruiz wouldn't be using it anymore. "Unless you've got a secret high-paying job like McGee."

"McGee has a secret high-paying job?" Wilson asked, confused, and McGee groaned. So much for keeping that from the new team. Although, really, at this point, the new team was just Wilson.

"They call it a _secret_ high-paying job for a reason, Kim," McGee said, exasperated.

"He seriously doesn't know?" she asked, looking up from her tablet. "Oops."

"Doesn't know what?" Wilson asked. McGee just sighed and shook his head, but didn't say anything else. He figured Kim would take care of that for him.

Sure enough, when it became obvious that he wasn't sharing, she explained, "He's Thom E. Gemcity," she said. "The mystery writer."

"Really?" Wilson asked in amazement. "That's pretty cool."

Kim chuckled. "Hear that, McGee? You're pretty cool."

"No, I didn't say _he's_ pretty cool. The fact that he writes is," Wilson explained, making Kim laugh and McGee roll his eyes. "I'm done with the BOLO, if anyone wants to take a look at it."

"A BOLO for a white van with stolen plates?" Kim asked as she got up and crossed to Wilson's desk. "That's going to win us a lot of favors with other LEOs."

"We work with what we have," McGee reminded her.

"Thank you, NCIS Training Manual," she said dryly. "I still think we should hold off on the BOLO until we take a look at security cameras in the area. There was a lot of blood around the body, which meant that somebody stepped out of the van to stab her. We get the right angle, we get a look at the murderer, and we put that in the BOLO and we might get something relevant. We release this and mention that we're looking for a Somalian male," she continued, waving at Wilson's computer screen, "we get nothing except laughs from the agencies that are supposed to be helping us and a lot of paranoia about black men in white vans." She looked up at McGee. "Any luck with that?"

He shook his head. "I'm still looking," he replied.

"We're not going to lose anything by waiting a few hours to post a BOLO."

"That might be true in anti-terrorism, but in a murder investigation—"

"Don't give me that, McGee," she said warningly. "This isn't my first rodeo." She stared challengingly at him for a few long seconds. "I looked into Capitol Industrial Clean," she continued, no trace of animosity in her voice. He wondered if she could really go from upset to back to business within seconds; thinking of a few fights with Harley, he decided it was a Marine thing. "There is nothing on them. Literally, nothing. Not even a shell or a paper trail. They are nothing but a logo on a van. Which is probably gone by now." She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest, looking away before looking back at McGee. "Some bad shit is going down. And if we don't get it right on the first try, it's not going to count at all."


	31. Chapter 31

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 31**

_A/N: By popular request, a Tiva chapter. _

* * *

Tony DiNozzo was sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, the movie _Red Tails_ on the TV, and his wife's head resting on his lap as she laid on her back reading a book, her feet propped up on the edge of the couch, which she claimed was the only thing to help how swollen her feet had become. "I'm not a fan of this movie," he mused aloud. "I don't like this genre, really. It's like a fictional documentary. No, more like a fictional non-fiction. You take something that actually happened—the Tuskegee Airmen, the 332nd Fighter Group—but then you put in fictional people and expect all the pieces to fit. And the acting is forced. Not all of it, of course. Cuba Gooding, Jr. will just about always do a good job. And you can't really complain about Terrence Howard in any role. Really liked him in _Iron Man. _He was a much better Lt. Col. Rhodes than Don Cheadle."

"If you do not like it, Tony, you do not have to watch it," Ziva pointed out as she turned a page in her book, her eyes not wavering from the printed word.

"The action isn't bad."

She chuckled. "With ringing endorsements like that, you should be a movie critic," she teased.

"I've thought about it. Maybe after I retire." He put his hand on Ziva's belly to feel the baby kick. "Either he's practicing his krav maga or he's enjoying the movie." He glanced up at the screen. "Ah. Terrence Howard's go get 'em speech. Yeah, that is a good moment."

"I tested out the piano after the tuner was here. He seems to enjoy Schumann."

"Terrence Howard?"

She finally looked up at him with that familiar 'you're an idiot' expression. "Yes, Tony, Terrence Howard was here in our house," she said sarcastically. "I was talking about the baby."

"Ah. He Who Must Not Be Named."

The look now changed to one of confusion. "I do not see what Harry Potter has to do with anything."

"I guess more accurately, He Who Has Yet To Be Named."

She rolled her eyes and returned them to the book. "If you were not so stubborn, maybe it would not be so difficult."

He gave a laugh of disbelief. "Me? _You're_ calling _me_ stubborn? You, the one who has no strong opinions about names other than it can't be any that I like? You have heard the one about the pot and kettle, right?"

"Alexander," she said as a reply. He groaned.

"Really? You're going to go there? A name I've already vetoed? How is that not the non-Italian version of my father's name?" He saw the challenge in her eyes and countered stubbornly with, "Daniel."

"Brian."

"Jacob."

"Actually, that is not bad," she said thoughtfully as his phone rang.

"Hold that thought," he instructed. "DiNozzo," he answered.

_"Hey, heard you were talking about me."_ It took him a second to recognize Chad Dunham's voice, and the fact that he didn't identify himself actually helped. Dunham never gave his name out over the phone, because he spent most of his time under one cover or another, and he didn't like to risk getting them confused. _"In conjunction with everyone's favorite country, of course."_

"I thought you were hanging out with arms dealers in South Sudan." His eyes were on the screen as Ziva picked up the remote and paused the movie. He appreciated the effort, but honestly would have been okay with her just turning it off.

_"I'm taking a break from that one,"_ Dunham replied.

"Is this something I should be reading about in a report?"

_"Maybe, if I were any good at writing reports. Nah, I'm sure it'll be fine."_

"Let's address that later," DiNozzo said. "Somalia?"

_"Okay,"_ Dunham said before taking a deep breath. _"So, Gabi filled me in. Is she—"_

"Married to a dentist, Dunham."

_ "Yeah, that seems to fit,"_ the ever-undercover field agent replied with disappointment in his voice. _"Anyway, she filled me in on the case. Or, I guess, cases, because it sounds like we've got a lot going on that all has to do with Somalia. Maybe. A murdered analyst, some SIGINT coming from Somalia and Kenya, and a murdered engineer, right?"_

"There's been a murdered probie since then," DiNozzo informed him.

_"Gibbs' probie?"_

"Mm-hmm."

_ "I bet he's pissed."_

"I can imagine.

_"So can I. That's the problem."_ DiNozzo smiled slightly at Dunham's words and the emotion behind him. And this was from an agent who never worked directly for Gibbs. _"She said you were looking into the engineer's family back in Somalia. Kaseem Khalid, father Ali, mother Ladan, four deceased siblings."_

"Four?"

_"Three with dates and causes of death making them likely related to the war, one years before that. Polio, of all things. I didn't know that was still a thing."_

"I think that's why we vaccinate kids against it."

_ "Probably. Well, I was poking around about this Khalid family when I found something interesting. Well, someone. Somalia has someone in prison who wants to talk to you about Al-Shabaab and why the Khalid family interests Al-Shabaab so much."_

"Can you give me the Cliff Notes version?"

_"Actually, no. All I have is everything I just told you. He said he needed to talk to someone with authority, and last I checked, that's the SAC of the office. I'll help you out, of course, but he wants to talk to you."_

DiNozzo sighed. "Chad, I can't go to Somalia right now," he said. "Ziva's eight and a half months pregnant. I'm not going anywhere. What does this guy even want?"

_"He wants to be moved to Gitmo."_

"You're joking, right?"

_"Compared to Somali prison, three squares a day and an hour in the yard is a pretty sweet gig. And what he's got might be worth it. It's not just background he's offering. He was just caught and put in prison last week. I think he has intelligence on Al-Shabaab's activities. Now, I don't know how high ranking he is—was?—but having an actual person to talk to has got to be better than the NSA and the rest of the alphabet soup trying to put together pieces of phone conversations and figure out how people are related by who they're calling and who they're sitting next to on a plane." _

DiNozzo let his head fall back against the top of the couch. Dunham was right; he usually was about these sorts of things, but that didn't change the fact that this was exactly the wrong time for him to be leaving Bahrain. "Is there any way I can send Gabi as my proxy?"

_"I think the only people these guys despise more than Saudis are women."_

"Just so we're clear, that would be a no on the female half-Saudi senior field agent?"

_"That would be a no,"_ Dunham agreed.

"Freiler?"

_"Has his Arabic improved at all?"_

"I think he can identify most of the letters now and sound out at least half of them."

Dunham chuckled. _"If you want to sit on him for a few weeks until after the baby's born, that's your call. Gabi made it sound like there were concerns about the 4__th__ of July, so I thought time was an issue with this one."_

"It is," DiNozzo replied reluctantly. He looked down to see Ziva looking up at him, the look on her face enough to tell him that she had been listening to both sides of the conversation and knew what was going on.

And then, without warning, she reached up and grabbed the phone from her husband as she sat up. "Chad? Hi, yes, thank you, I am doing fine. I am ready for this baby to be born, but otherwise fine. Tony will be on the first flight to Mogadishu in the morning. He will text you the flight itinerary. Is this phone number good? Thanks. I will talk to you soon." She hung up the phone definitively before handing it back to DiNozzo.

"Did you just tell Chad that I'll be going to Somalia tomorrow?"

"Yes," she replied simply.

"Are you forgetting the fact that you are very pregnant?"

She rolled her eyes at him as she got up from the couch. "There is still more than three weeks until the baby is due," she reminded him. "And it should not take you long to talk to a prisoner in a Somali prison and determine if what he is saying makes any sense. Besides," she said with a shrug as she headed toward the bedroom. "You have already finished putting the important pieces of furniture together, so even if the baby comes while you are gone, we will be okay."

"That's not nice, Ziva," he complained.

She stopped and turned back to face him. "You have a job to do, Tony," she said, her voice softening. "I know that. And you know that if I were not currently too large to do my job, that I would be volunteering to go along to help you. I will be fine. You will be fine. The baby will continue to disrupt my life but he will be fine, too. Go to Somalia, help Gibbs and McGee solve their case, and then come back home so we can figure out if we can agree on a name or two before he decides to be born."


	32. Chapter 32

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 32**

* * *

Dr. Jeff Cunningham thanked the cabbie as he handed over his money and slung his rucksack over his shoulder, making his way toward the brick building marked "NCIS". Which was, of course, locked.

"Can I help you?" a security guard asked after opening the door for him.

"Lieutenant Commander Jeff Cunningham," he introduced. "My wife is a field agent and I wanted to stop in and say hi. And deliver breakfast." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to his rucksack, which contained the two Dunkin Donuts muffins he grabbed at the airport.

"Wife's name?"

"Kim Cunningham," he replied. The guard typed the name into the computer and frowned.

"I don't see a Cunningham listed."

"She's TDY from the San Diego office. She's working with Agent Gibbs' team." At the other end of the security desk, a female Marine captain in a flight suit looked up and arched an eyebrow. "Captain," he greeted with a nod.

"Sir," she replied. "I'm heading up to the bullpen. I can show you the way."

"We're still waiting for your escort, Captain McNamee," the guard protested, earning an eye roll from the pilot and a chuckle from Cunningham; he had worked with enough Marines, including his wife, to know that attitude. "Commander, we'll have to call up and let them know that you're here."

"I was hoping to surprise her, actually," he replied. He should have known it wouldn't be as easy as swinging by Kim's office in San Diego, where the security guards and field agents knew him and were usually pretty eager to jump in on surprising the intense anti-terrorism lead agent.

"I got this, sir," Captain McNamee said as she pulled out an iPhone and sent a quick text. A minute later, the phone at the guard's desk rang.

"You two are cleared to go up," the guard said reluctantly as he hung up the phone.

"Thank you," Captain McNamee said cheerfully. "This way, sir."

"Jeff," he corrected.

"Harley," she replied as they stepped into the elevator. "I didn't realize Gibbs' team had a temporary agent."

"If she had it her way, they wouldn't," he replied. "But as stubborn as she is, I guess Gibbs is more stubborn. Must be the gunny in him." She raised an eyebrow at that. "My father-in-law's a retired master sergeant," he explained.

"So you know Marines?" she asked, somewhat teasingly. He chuckled.

"You have no idea." Two deployments as a Fleet Marine Force physician and working in the pediatrics clinic at Camp Pendleton had nothing on marrying into a family that viewed time in the Marine Corps as both an honor and a requirement. "What brings you to NCIS?"

"Surprising my boyfriend," she said with a smile. "I wasn't supposed to be coming in until Tuesday, but my squad earned a pass by posting the highest scores on our latest exams. I drove up from Pax River as soon as we were cleared after night flying." They stepped into the elevator and she pressed a button. "What do you do out in San Diego?"

"I'm a pediatrician at Balboa," he replied.

"Med corps," she said, sounding more like a statement than a question.

"Well, we can't all be aviators," he pointed out as the elevator doors slid open.

He barely had time to comprehend the bright orange walls or the cube farm that was spread out in front of him when he heard his name and saw a blur of dark hair and khaki pants making its way to him. He had just planted his feet when she jumped up on him and kissed him hard. It was how she used to always greet him when they met up again after a long separation, but something she hadn't done since his leg and arm were broken in Yemen almost a year before. He was strangely glad for it to be back, even though it did have the potential to make him turn very red in embarrassment. "I missed you," she murmured as pulled back slightly.

"I picked up on that, thanks," he replied with a smile. "I missed you, too."

"This is an office, not an airport," a voice said from behind Kim, making her roll her eyes. Sure enough, Jeff felt the blood rushing to his face and was sure that he was more than a little red.

"What, did you think I would only embarrass you at _your_ work?" Kim asked as she jumped back down to the ground, a slightly triumphant look on her face. "Do you remember Special Agent Gibbs?" she asked as she gestured toward the man who had spoken.

"Yes," Jeff replied, offering his hand to the older man, ignoring her first question. "It's nice to see you again, Agent Gibbs. And, thank you. Kim told me what you did to get my paperwork approved."

"Least I can do," Gibbs replied.

"And this is Wilson, and McGee usually sits right here," Kim continued, indicating the one occupied and one unoccupied desk. "I have no idea who the pilot is, though."

"Oh, I'm looking for Tim," Captain McNamee replied. "Harley McNamee."

"Kim Cunningham," Kim introduced. "I'm temporarily in from San Diego. I think McGee is down in the lab. He spent all night looking for security and traffic video around the Mall."

"Still?" McNamee asked with a frown. "It's been almost a week since your analyst was killed."

"Oh," Kim said with realization. "Agent Ruiz was killed late Thursday night. We haven't left the office since yesterday morning."

"Have you slept since then?" Jeff asked with a frown. She had a tendency to get wrapped up in her work and avoid things like sleep and food; not really good habits when she was already having a difficult pregnancy.

"No, but I hit the treadmill in the gym at about zero three," she said. "Did a fast five miles. That woke me right back up, since I'm only allowed one cup of coffee a day." She gave him a stern look about that, which he just shrugged about. He was getting used to this whole idea of being blamed for anything pregnancy related. He supposed it was only fair. "Besides, it's hard to find a time to sleep when you have to be on the phone with contacts all around the world. Which is what I should be doing in a minute here."

"Why don't you grab breakfast with your husband?" Wilson suggested. "Phone calls will still be here."

Jeff knew that frown on Kim's face, but before she had the opportunity to argue, the elevator doors opened again, revealing someone who at this hour on a Saturday could only be another field agent. "We didn't have much luck…" His voice trailed off as he looked at the people gathered near his desk, stopping at Harley. "I thought you were flying today."

"Surprise," she said with a smile. "They gave us a pass until Thursday morning."

"Oh," he said, sounding reluctant. "We're actually working a case…"

"Go," Gibbs commanded. "Get some food. You all look like crap."

Both Kim and the agent Jeff suspected was McGee began protesting, both stopping in midsentence at the look on the former gunny's face. "Food sounds good," Wilson said cheerfully in the silence that had fallen over the group. "I'm starved. There's a great place just outside the gate."

They waited for Harley to change out of her flight suit and then they headed out toward the diner Wilson recommended, Kim texting and reading things on BlackBerry throughout the entire walk. "DiNozzo's probably in Mogadishu by now," she commented, her eyes still on the small device.

"That doesn't sound like a vacation," Jeff replied.

"Nope," she agreed.

"Ziva let him take off this close to when the baby's due?" McGee asked. Kim finally looked up to give him a puzzled look.

"You know Ziva," she said slowly. "She probably told him he has to go."

"Kim told me I have to go on the _Comfort_," Jeff added.

"When was that?" Harley asked.

"He got back a week ago," Kim said.

"But you're…" McGee began and then trailed off.

"Calm down, McGee," Kim replied. "He was only gone for six weeks."

"We found out she was pregnant and then I promptly retreated for the Caribbean," Jeff joked. "But she found a way to blame me for everything from there, so I haven't missed out on too much."

"Isn't the internet amazing?" Kim asked dryly. "And then less than three days after he gets back, I get to catch a flight to DC. Lucky me."

"When are you due?" Harley asked.

"Christmas," Kim replied. "Which means we'll be stuck in San Diego instead of getting to go home. At least the weather'll be nice."

"Much nicer than Eastern Washington," Jeff agreed. He had only done Christmas with the Tomblin family once—the past Christmas—but he had been to the orchard in winter many times and knew that it would always be bitterly cold.

The five continued to get to know each other as they ordered and waited for their food, talking about just about everything except the current case, and just as Gibbs seemed to have predicted, the three agents seemed to relax and become more animated as the breakfast progressed; Jeff even caught a smile on his wife's face at one point, before her BlackBerry rang.

"Well, there goes breakfast," she muttered as she checked the device and frowned. "Somalia?" she asked under her breath. "Hello? Oh. DiNozzo. Should have figured. What's up?" She listened for a minute before she began scribbling some notes on a napkin. "Yeah. Got it. I'll run it as soon as we get back to the office. Yeah, we were working all night. Jeff landed this morning and we're all out at breakfast. Yeah, I know. Hey, is this number good for getting hold of you for the next few days? Okay, great. I'll let you know if I get anything." She hung up the phone and sighed. "Just as I thought. There goes breakfast," she said with an apologetic smile. "DiNozzo just gave me an assignment. It's back to the office." She signaled the waitress for the check and turned to Jeff. "Thanks for coming, babe. You got plans for the day?"

"Actually, Mox and I are going golfing down at Quantico," he replied, making her frown again.

"Mox golfs?" she asked. "Wait. You golf?"

"Well, I am a doctor," he joked. "I am really, really bad at it. We'll probably give up after five holes and go drink."

"Be sure to wear sunscreen," she instructed and kissed him. "I'll give you a call when we're done for the day. Gather up the usual suspects for dinner tonight."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied cheekily, making her roll her eyes. "I love you. Good luck."

"Love you, too." She smiled slightly. "And thanks. With this case, it feels like we need it."


	33. Chapter 33

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 33**

* * *

While Gibbs' team—and the Cunninghams and Harley McNamee—were having breakfast, Gibbs was heading up to Director Vance's office. "I would tell you to come on in, but I see you already have," Vance said dryly, not even looking up from his papers to face the field agent. "How's the case?"

"Abby's working on IDing the knife," Gibbs replied.

"Same knife as killed Khalid?"

"Gracy thinks it might. Says there's no way to be sure with what they have."

Vance frowned as he finally looked up. "No way?" he echoed.

"Height matches," Gibbs said with a shrug.

"Height's not much to go on."

"Abby's working on it."

"Gracy still around?"

"North of Baltimore for the weekend. Swim meet."

Vance nodded slightly. "Video from the Mall?"

"McGee's still working on it."

"So what brings you in?"

Gibbs pulled the envelope out of his pocket and tapped it against his hand thoughtfully for a few seconds. "My retirement papers," he finally said, sliding it across the desk to the director.

That got Vance's attention.

The director looked up at Gibbs for a long second with an almost disapproving look on his face before he reached for the envelope and opened it, scanning the papers inside. "No," he said after a few long minutes.

"No?" Gibbs echoed.

"No," Vance confirmed.

"It's not a resignation, Vance. You can't refuse to accept retirement papers. I've given NCIS twenty years."

"Doesn't mean you have to retire."

"Pretty sure the mandatory retirement age of fifty-five does."

"Means you can't be a field agent," Vance countered. "Doesn't say anything about leaving NCIS."

Gibbs scoffed and looked away before looking back at the other man. "I'm not going to investigate a desk," he stated matter-of-factly.

"How do you feel about running an office?"

"I just gave you that answer."

"Sit down, Gibbs."

"I'm good standing."

"It wasn't a request."

Gibbs gave Vance a look, but knew being stubborn and staying on his feet would just prolong this already longer-than-planned meeting; now that he had said his piece, he just wanted to go back to his desk and get back the investigation. They had three murders and a possible terrorist attack, and they were sorely lacking any answers at all. "DoD's going to be consolidating as many European assets as possible in Weisbaden over the next few years," Vance said once Gibbs was seated. "Heidelberg's closing and Stuttgart's downgrading. We're moving the Germany office to Weisbaden to stay on top of things. I'm going to need someone to run it."

"I'm not interested."

"It's a promotion, Gibbs."

"Don't need the money."

Vance sighed in frustration and slid a folder across the desk. "Just look at it," he said. "You can be as involved with investigations as you want to be, you just need to send other people out into the field. Hell, Gibbs, you've been doing that more often than not since DiNozzo and David left, anyway."

At that, Gibbs stood and walked out of the office. Without the folder of information about the Weisbaden office.

* * *

DiNozzo punched the 'END' button on the cheap Nokia phone he bought at the Mogadishu airport right after landing that morning and sighed as he leaned his head back in his chair and closed his eyes. "How's Kim?" Chad Dunham asked.

"Pregnant," DiNozzo replied, not opening his eyes.

"Her, too?" Dunham complained. "What is there, an epidemic in NCIS? Did she at least wait until after she got married?"

"Ha," DiNozzo said dryly. It wasn't exactly a secret in their circles that, while they were married when they discovered that Ziva was pregnant, they weren't married when she got that way. "Yeah, I think she said twelve weeks."

"So they didn't exactly wait long."

"You know how patient Kim is." Dunham chuckled at that, and DiNozzo lifted his head to see the blond undercover agent nodding in agreement. "She's going to run the name and vital statistics to see if this guy is a known entity to anyone in the States."

"You think he's lying about being connected to Al-Shabaab?"

"You said it yourself. Anything would beat a Somali prison." It would probably be the first time he knew of that somebody lied about being part of a terrorist organization when they weren't, though. "We're not going to be able to make a case for the U.S. Attorney for transfer to Gitmo if he's someone we don't know. I have Gabi working on it up in Bahrain and I asked Ziva if she could put her Mossad team on it, too." And speaking of Ziva… He checked his watch before saying, "We still have half an hour before they'll let us in. I'm going to call my wife and make sure she hasn't gone into labor."

"You just called her half an hour ago," Dunham complained. "And I thought you still had a month or so to go?"

"I hope someday you're expecting a kid," DiNozzo commented. "Then I think you'll understand. I'll be back before the guards come get us."

Half an hour later, DiNozzo had confirmed that Ziva was not yet in labor and that she was having Dardik look into Qeys Mahamud, before he and Dunham were escorted into the interview area of the Mogadishu Central Prison to meet with the terrorist. "Hello again, Mahamud," Dunham greeted in Arabic. "I brought someone who wants to hear your story."

"You can get me to Guantanamo?" Mahamud asked DiNozzo.

"Depends on what you have to tell us," DiNozzo replied. He turned to Dunham. "Go on," he prompted. While DiNozzo's Arabic comprehension was pretty good, he was a little slow on the conversation—it took him too long to think of how to word questions and replies. Since Dunham spent of his time working undercover as a businessman in Arab countries, he was pretty solid at it.

"You said you have information about Kaseem Khalid," Dunham began.

"I want a deal first."

"That's not how that works," DiNozzo said. "I'm the one who can get you moved. I make the rules. He asks questions, you answer, I decide what happens. Talk."

Mahamud frowned as he considered that. "Kaseem Khalid was needed to give information, but it wouldn't have been possible to get him to give it without…persuasion."

"Let's start at the beginning," Dunham said. "How do you even know about one engineer in the United States, and how did you know he would have anything of value to you?"

Mahamud frowned again. "That, I do not know," he admitted. "That was a different department."

"Which department were you?"

"I was the one who found what could be used to convince Khalid that he should talk to us."

"And what was that?"

"His father was a banker in Hargeisa. The son was told that his father had been involved in funding the rebellion. It was implied that if the United Nations had been made aware of this, that they would rescind his father's refugee status and he would deported back here."

"Was that true?"

"Not that I know of."

"So you just told him that to get him to cooperate."

"Yes," Mahamud said with a nod.

DiNozzo frowned, and when Dunham turned to him, he saw that he was frowning, too. He hoped that they were both frowning about the same thing, and that he hadn't misunderstood the conversation. "Why did you need his cooperation?" Dunham asked, turning back to Mahamud.

"Our organization needed the engineering plans for government structures in Washington, D.C. The home of Obama."

"Why?" Dunham asked.

"If I tell you, will you transfer me out of this prison?" He directed the question at DiNozzo.

"Only if it's something worth it," DiNozzo replied.

Mahamud thought about that for a second, and apparently came to the conclusion that what he had was worth it. "I do not know what the status of the plan is as this moment, as I have been in here for several weeks," he prefaced. "I do know that the goal was to release sulfur mustard in Washington, D.C."


	34. Chapter 34

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 34**

_A/N: Merry Christmas Eve! Sorry about the later posting time; I'm on vacation :)_

* * *

McGee had tried to take a nap in Abby's lab in the afternoon, but Gibbs had caught him and sent him home, saying that a senior field agent who couldn't keep his eyes open at work was no good at work. When he wandered back to the bullpen, he found that Gibbs must have said similar things to both Kim and Wilson, their desks now empty and their gear gone.

It was before rush hour really got bad—although there was really no good time to drive in the DC area, other than the middle of the night—so it only took him 45 minutes to get home to Silver Spring through Rock Creek Park. Once inside his apartment, he found a certain curly-haired pilot curled up in his bed fast asleep, and although he had story ideas running through his head that he had wanted to get onto paper as soon as possible, he found the idea of a nap suddenly too good to pass up.

Harley had woken him up around four in a way he would never complain about, especially when it had been almost a week since they had seen each other. "I'm getting hungry, but it's far too early to eat dinner," she commented as she brushed through her thick hair after they showered.

"We can always grab a snack and then get dinner later," McGee suggested, realizing only after she spoke that he skipped lunch and hadn't had anything to eat since their breakfast at the diner. "You want to go to Copper Canyon?"

"Let's go somewhere new," Harley replied. "I can't remember the last time I went anywhere in Alexandria."

"Alexandria?" McGee asked, making a face. "Do you know how long it would take to drive down to Alexandria from here this time of day?"

"Why don't we take the Metro?" Harley asked. "It's only one transfer, right? To the blue line?"

"Or the yellow," McGee pointed out. "And that's still going to take an hour."

"So?" she asked with a shrug. "It's five. It would still be an early dinner by the time we got down there and found a place to eat." He must have looked as unconvinced as he felt, because she continued, "Please? I just feel like exploring."

He sighed. There was no way he could refuse her when she was looking at him like that. Marine fighter pilot or not, she still knew how to act like a girl when it suited her. "Okay," he relented. "Let's go to Alexandria."

Harley was excited enough about their 'adventure' that she dominated the conversation on the Metro ride down to Virginia, talking about what they had been doing at the test pilot school and avoiding any talk of the current cases, which suited him just fine. It wasn't that she minded hearing about his work—in fact, she regularly pressed him for details, devouring the stories the same way she did his novels, or any mystery novels—but the dark cloud over his head must have been hanging low enough for her to take note.

"Any idea of good places to eat down here?" Harley asked as she lowered her Oakleys over her eyes. "There's got to be something by the water."

"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't come here often."

"You don't take your other girlfriends out to eat?" she teased, slipping her hand in his as she directed them toward the river.

He snorted. "Right," he replied, making her laugh. "You're in a good mood," he observed.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asked lightly. "I got to fly all night and slept all day, and now I get to see you and we're exploring. That makes me happy."

"Sorry I'm not better company."

"You're always good company."

"And you're a lousy liar," he replied, but he was smiling. She grinned victoriously and gave him a quick kiss before they continued their search for where they wanted to eat.

They were almost at the first restaurant on the water when McGee heard a familiar voice that took him a few seconds to place; it was the laugh at the end of the sentence that gave it away. When they stepped within view of the restaurant's patio, that voice called out, "McGee? Are you following us?"

"Hi, Kim," he replied. The exchange had gotten the attention of the entire large group she was sitting with, which included her husband and the man with prosthetic legs she had been running with a few mornings before, as well as a bunch of people he was pretty sure he had never met, but the haircuts the men wore made him pretty sure that they were military. "Uh, we just decided to come down to Alexandria."

"From Silver Spring?" she asked with a laugh. "Well, if you bothered to follow us, you might as well join us."

"All we've ordered so far is drinks," Jeff Cunningham chimed in. "Fair warning, there are a whole bunch of leathernecks out here."

"And too many fucking squids," one of the men added. Dr. Cunningham grinned and shrugged a shoulder.

"We didn't mean..." Kim's eyebrows raised at McGee's protest and he sighed, turning to Harley. "It's up to you."

"Fine by me," she said with a shrug. "Although the squids might be a problem."

"The squids are always a problem," one of the men commented.

"Hey, now," one of the women protested. "You Marines all think you're so tough, and then one stubbed toe and all of a sudden you can't even function without swinging by medical."

The waitress grabbed two extra place settings and put McGee and Harley at the end of the table. "Let me make introductions," Kim offered. "Everyone, Special Agent Tim McGee, the senior field agent of the NCIS Headquarters team at the Navy Yard, and Captain McNamee. Sorry, I forgot your first name."

"Harley," she said.

"Aww, shit, Tomblin," a very tall black man groaned. "You brought a company grade?"

"I'm a pilot," Harley explained.

"I think that's worse," another man commented.

"Hold up," Dr. Cunningham protested. "Two of my brothers-in-law are pilots."

"And do you hang out with them?" the black man challenged.

"Fuck, no," Jeff said emphatically. "Those two are awful."

Kim nodded her agreement to that. "They really are," she said. "Let me introduce you around. Get ready, there's going to be a quiz," she warned McGee and Harley. "You know my husband, Jeff, and around the table, we have Lieutenant Commander Colleen O'Shaughnessy, Major Jon Simple, Lieutenant Colonel Zack Mox, Commander Siobhan Mox—those two boys are theirs, the older one is Andrew and the little one is Ben—the guy who likes the sound of his own voice is Major Lou Anderson, and his wife, Signe. She was smart enough to never sign on a dotted line, but dumb enough to marry that clown."

"She saw that I was taller than her and just couldn't resist," Maj Anderson joked.

"Hey, aren't you on ESPN?" He had thought the tall blond looked familiar, and it wasn't until he heard the name that McGee was able to make the connection to the sports reporter.

"That would be me," Signe confirmed.

"And the world's largest toddler is Gunnar," Kim finished. "He's only sixteen months old, if you can believe that."

"He already has three NBA teams vying for early signing rights," Lt Col Mox commented. "They're just waiting for him to learn how to sign his name."

"How do you all know each other?" Harley asked. They all frowned and looked at each other, before they all turned to Dr. Cunningham.

"Give it a go, Jeff," LCDR O'Shaughnessy encouraged.

"Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. "Kim, Anderson, and Simple were all company commanders of Combat Logistics Battalion 5 out of Camp Pendleton. They deployed to Fallujah and I was PROFIS'ed to run the clinic. Colleen came in later to replace the battalion surgeon, who got an early psych discharge from Iraq. Simple got his legs blown off and was sent to Walter Reed, and after the deployment ended, Colleen moved out there to finish residency and they ended up getting hitched. And Little Simpleton is due today, right?"

"We'll consider the meal a success if nobody goes into labor," Maj Simple said with a nod.

"Always setting high standards, Simple. Anyway, I knew Mox from Annapolis and Siobhan and I were pediatricians at Balboa together, and then they moved out here and met Colleen and Simple. And Anderson married Signe when he was stationed in Europe and now they live here and he works at the Pentagon and spends far too much time drinking with these guys." He took a long drink from his bottle of beer and turned to his wife. "I get everything?"

"That was pretty good," she said with a nod. "I think we'll make you the battalion's official historian."

"I have a job, thanks," he replied.

The meal was actually pretty enjoyable, McGee finding himself relaxing and laughing along at the jokes, even throwing a few of his own in. Kim's friends were obviously a close knit group, but aside from the initial jokes about Harley's rank, were pretty open and friendly and didn't exclude the two newcomers. In fact, in the course of conversation, they discovered that Siobhan Mox had also attended Johns Hopkins, the alma mater of both McGee and Harley, and while she was a senior when McGee was a 16-year-old freshman and they didn't have any courses overlap, she had had some of the same professors as a biology major that McGee and Harley had had as biomedical engineering majors, and some of the same cadre in the NROTC program that Harley had years later. That had prompted their own stories and jokes, and overall, it was a good evening.

He was lucky to have a girlfriend who dragged him out every once in a while. He was just lucky to have Harley, really. He didn't know what he would do without her, which reminded him that he owed her an answer about Yuma, and he still had no idea what that answer should be.


	35. Chapter 35

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 35**

_A/N: Okay, short chapter. Sorry. I'll try to move the story more forward with the next one._

* * *

Even though working on a Sunday wasn't an every week thing—especially on weekends when they weren't on call—the entire MCRT plus Kim Cunningham was in the office early Sunday morning. McGee resumed his search for any sort of camera around the Mall, Cunningham followed up with her contacts about the Somali who DiNozzo talked to, Wilson helped out on background, and Gibbs made his rounds to Autopsy and the lab.

McGee waited until Wilson went on a coffee run before he said to Cunningham, "I have a question for you."

"Sure," she replied absently, her eyes still on her tablet.

"Harley's detailer wants to send her to Yuma in January," he said hesitantly. "She asked if I wanted to go with her."

"And you're trying to decide whether or not you should be talking to the assignments officer about a move to Arizona," Cunningham summed up. "They have an MCRT there now, you know."

"I know," he said with a sigh. "But I've been here almost my entire career—"

"You're looking at the wrong side of the equation," she interrupted. "Do you love her?"

"Yeah."

"And do you want to be with her?"

"Of course."

She shrugged. "Then go to Yuma," she said.

"It's not that simple," he said with a sigh.

"Oh, it's not?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "I'm married to a sailor, remember?" She frowned as she sorted things out in her head. "I took the position in Silverdale when I got back from Iraq and left Jeff down in San Diego, and then spent the next four and a half years knowing that I made a mistake but not knowing how to fix it. I could justify it with statements of wanting to work anti-terrorism, but really, what it came down to was that my job was a lot more portable than Jeff's. That's why I'm now in San Diego. Your job is a lot more portable than that of a Marine test pilot, McGee. You can work law enforcement anywhere, and as long as she's in the Corps, you know they're going to have at least one NCIS agent everywhere she goes. If you think staying here, in this position and with this team, is going to make you more happy than being with Harley, then by all means, stay. But if you think there's a chance that you can be happy working in Yuma, and you get to be with someone you love, then you should seriously think about it." She shrugged. "Hell, McGee, you don't even need NCIS. You can just sit around and write books and be more successful than most of us will ever dream. Just my two cents, but hey, you asked."

"Don't let that one go, McGee," Gibbs said as he descended the stairs from the loft.

"Boss?"

"You honestly think you're going to find another girl like her?"

"Well, no—"

"Then what's the question?"

And Gibbs was in the elevator before McGee could think of a response.

* * *

DiNozzo waited until a reasonable hour in the Eastern time zone before he got Kim Cunningham on the phone. _"Still hanging out in Somalia, I see,"_ she said as a greeting. _"And how is everyone's favorite African terrorist state?"_

"Hot and dirty," he replied grumpily. "Did you get my email?"

_"About what your guy said? Yeah, I got it."_

"You think it's legit?"

_"I don't think we can afford not to,"_ she replied. _"He didn't give dates—unless you left something out of the email, of course—but a HUMINT piece to go with the SIGINT suggesting that Al-Shabaab is thinking of playing with mustards on the Fourth of July means we have to pay attention."_ He had figured she would say that. _"I'm looking into people or groups who have purchased the ingredients to make sulfur mustards. Sulfide monochloride or dichloride in combination with ethylene. In case the plan was to make it here, instead of ship it here, which to be honest, makes a lot more sense. They're all reasonably common in industrial uses, though, especially ethylene, so it's a decent sized list. But this is the nose to the grindstone work and problem solving that I enjoy about anti-terrorism, so I'm having a good time." _He couldn't tell though the connection if she was being serious or sarcastic. Either way, she would do what she had to do. _"I talked to Jeff about mustards last night, just in general terms, because he's had training in chemical warfare—"_

"They teach Navy doctors how to do chemical warfare?" DiNozzo interrupted.

_"Management of Chemical and Biological Casualties, DiNozzo,"_ she said, and he could practically hear the eye roll in her voice. _"They teach them how to treat people who have been exposed to chemical and biological agents. He says mustards aren't pretty. There's a fairly famous picture from World War I, I don't know if you're familiar with it or not, of soldiers walking across a field with their eyes bandaged, hands on the shoulders of the guy in front of them because they were all blinded. That's mustard gas. It also causes blisters in the skin of everywhere it touches. He said if it's over 50% of the body surface, they triage as expectant."_

"Expectant?"

_"As in, expectant to die,"_ she explained. _"Now, that was stuff that was industrially produced in factories and was pretty high-quality, and was distributed over a field where people were hiding in trenches, which worked because it was heavier than air and sunk into the trenches. The stuff that the terrorists make in people's basements is full of impurities and doesn't spread as far before it falls to the ground, so it wouldn't be the same situation. But if this is a Fourth of July on the Mall, we're looking at over a hundred thousand people on a giant field, none of which will have gas masks and all of which with a propensity to panic."_

"The point?" he asked with a sigh. There was no question Kim Cunningham knew her stuff when it came to terrorism; he hoped he understood it as well after two years in that office, but he also hoped that he didn't have the same tendency to go into greater detail than necessary.

"_The point is there probably won't be too many deaths, depending on the release point of the stuff, but that people will still freak out. A lot."_

"Yeah, I kinda had that one figured out, thanks." He hated it when people stated the obvious. Especially when he was tired from a full day of going over details with a prisoner in a Mogadishu prison that didn't have air conditioning. "Do we have anything that will help us figure that out?"

"_Hell, DiNozzo, you're the one in Somalia. If we're looking for Somali terrorists, which of the two of us do you think has a better chance of finding them?" _


	36. Chapter 36

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 36**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo needed a hot shower, cold beer, decent night of sleep, and food that tasted like it had been prepared sometime in the last week. He needed a case where he had control of what was going on and knew what to do next.

He needed to get back to Bahrain.

"What're we up to today?" Chad Dunham asked as he snapped his phone closed and slid into the chair across the table from the highest-ranked NCIS agent in the region.

"I thought knowing that was your job," DiNozzo replied, the same reply he gave every time Dunham asked that question. It took him a minute to figure out how many times that had been, how many days it had been since Ziva dropped him off at the airport and wished him luck.

Tuesday. It was Tuesday.

After the initial conversation with Mahamud, they had returned the next day to go over names and details in pain-staking detail, trying to get something that they could use and would be worth an all-expense paid trip to the prison everyone loved to hate, and then he stayed up all night drafting emails and talking on the phone to people in the U.S. Attorney's office who clearly didn't know what they were talking about—"So you're saying he wants out of Gitmo?" followed by, "No, he's in Somalia. He wants to get into Gitmo,"—was now an unfortunately familiar exchange, before they got the tentative okay for the prison transfer.

Even though, realistically, they still had 6-8 months of red tape to go through before that could happen, and there was no garuantee that Mahamud would live that long in Somali prison.

They had made their way out of Mogadishu after that in efforts of tracking down the names Mahamud had given and spent the previous night in the finest hotel Baidoa had to offer, which wasn't saying much. DiNozzo's back ached from the mattress, and if last night's dinner was any indication, breakfast wouldn't be anything to write home about.

Which reminded him that he still needed to call Ziva.

"I'll be right back," he promised Dunham as he got up from the table.

"Tell Ziva I said hi," the undercover agent said in response.

Her phone rang twice before she answered. _"Good morning, Tony,"_ she said cheerfully. _"How is Somalia?"_

"I'm not leaving the country without you again," he said as a reply. She chuckled slightly.

_"That might be a bit difficult, once the baby is born,"_ she reminded him. _"And no, I have not gone into labor yet. But tomorrow is another doctor's appointment, so we shall see."_

"Tell him that he's not allowed to come until I'm back home."

_"I will try, Tony, but if he takes after his father, he will probably not listen."_

"That's probably true," he agreed. "I have more names for you to run," he said, getting down to business. He recited the three names that held the most promise. Ziva read them back to him and promised that she would look into it.

_"Come home soon, Tony,"_ she instructed him.

"I'm working on it," he replied. "I love you."

* * *

Kim Cunningham was just beginning to think about putting down her work for the night and heading for bed when the master bedroom door opened, Simple's large dog in front of the double amputee. "Oh. Hey," he said, clearly not expecting his guests to be up in the living room around midnight. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to Colleen. "I'm driving Colleen up to Bethesda."

"It's that time?" Jeff asked, putting down his iPad.

"Contractions are three minutes apart and hurt like hell," the psychatrist replied.

"Need me to come?"

"No, we're fine," she replied. "There'll be half a dozen doctors on the labor deck and another handful of pediatricians. And it'll probably still be another ten to twenty hours before anything exciting happens."

"Seriously?" Simple asked his wife.

"That's the way this thing works, babe," she replied. "I'll have Jon keep you updated," she informed Jeff.

"Assuming he doesn't get nervous and wrap his car around a telephone pole."

"I gave him Xanax for that," Colleen replied dismissively. "He'll be the calmest driver you've ever seen."

"Did you seriously drug me?" Simple asked with a frown.

"No," she replied, rolling her eyes. "But if you even think of freaking out, I will." She turned back to Jeff. "Good thing it's the middle of the night. Less traffic to contend with. Okay, we're out of here. Keep an eye open for pictures." She grimaced suddenly, grabbing a doorframe.

"Deep breaths," Simple said uncertainly. She shot him a dirty look.

"Just start the car," she managed tightly. "I'll be out in a minute."

"That looks like fun," Kim said. Colleen managed a wheeze of a chuckle and flipped her off.

"It'll be your turn soon enough," she replied once she was breathing normally again. "Okay. Now I'm out of here for real. Good luck with your case."

"Good luck with your baby. And dealing with your husband."

Colleen gave another chuckle. "Thanks. On both accounts."

Once the door closed behind the psychiatrist, Kim turned to her husband, eyebrows raised. "You're not going to be freaking out on me when I go into labor, are you?"

"Nah," he replied. "I'll probably finish rounds, give the residents a lecture about malaria management in children, then I might meet you up on the labor deck."

"So sensible," Kim said, feigning seriousness with a nod. "That's why I married you."

"I thought it was just poor judgment," Jeff replied.

"There was a little of that, too."

"Uh-huh," he replied, amused. "I guess by this time tomorrow, there'll be a new Simpleton."

"What do you think they're going for for the middle name?" Kim asked. "Cameron or Taylor?"

"Neither," Jeff said with a quick shake of his head. "William."

"Ah. After the general."

"That would be my guess."

"James William is a much better option than either James Cameron or James Taylor."

"I'm thinking that's what they were thinking, too," he said with a nod. "Too bad they can't do anything about the last name."

"Colleen did," Kim pointed out. "But I guess she can't really do much when it comes to the kids."

"Not really," he agreed. "We men came up with that arrangement to keep you women in line."

"Ha," she said dryly, making him grin. "I'm about ready for bed. I don't think there's anything—" As if on cue, her BlackBerry rang, making them both groan.

"I hate that thing," Jeff grumbled as he rose from the couch. "Try to make it to bed at some point."

"I'll try," she muttered as she picked up the phone. He knew she hated it just as much as he did when the phone went off in the middle of the night, just as she hated it when his pager went off at all hours. Difference was, she didn't make nearly as big of a deal of his pager as he did of her BlackBerry. She frowned at the name on the display. "Gardezi," she said when she answered. "You know it's midnight here, right?"

"_I know, and I'm sorry,"_ he said, that same tone of excitement in his voice that he had had in Iraq when they knew they were heading into something real, and that tone made her frown again.

He had something.

"_I'm about to get on the red eye out to DC,"_ he continued.

"Wait, what?" Cunningham asked. "Why? What about our cases back in San Diego? What did you find?"

"_NCIS doesn't have any active cases going on,"_ he pointed out. _"They were task force cases. LAPD, CBP, and SDPD have the leads on those."_ That's right; leading the task force had warped her perception of what NCIS did and didn't do. Taking over cases that didn't have anything to do with the Navy or Marine Corps was under the 'didn't do' column; they advised, but the task force members from local jurisdictions usually took the lead, which left Gardezi, as a junior NCIS field agent, without much to do. _"I've been working on those names you gave me and the chemicals you listed. We had a really strange case back in Detroit when I was working with property crimes to prepare for my detective exam. We turned it over to Detroit Homeland Security and I don't think anything came of it from there."_

"Gardezi, it's midnight, I'm tired and haven't been sleeping well when I do get the opportunity to sleep. Please, just get to the point and tell me why you'll be coming to join in this boondoggle."

"_Sorry, Skip. The point is that I went through those old records from Detroit, even though I had to bribe one of the guys I worked with back then to pull it for me. That guy was dealing with a similar batch of chemicals and his name was pretty close to one that you had on the list. Not exact, but we both know what the U.S. does to Arab names."_

"Yeah," she replied absently, working through his words in her head as a piece of hair was worked around her fingers. "So you think this guy and that guy might be the same guy?"

"_I think so,"_ he replied. _"The case up in Detroit ended with DHS getting close and the guy disappearing into the wind."_

"So he's tried this before and wasn't successful." That was never a good thing. "He's going to be determined this time around."

"_That's exactly what I was thinking."_

"I'll send a car to pick you up at the airport when you land."


	37. Chapter 37

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 37**

* * *

Even though she had been up past midnight, and had to deal with the chirping of Jeff's cell phone just about every hour as Simple texted updates from Bethesda, Kim Cunningham woke early for a quick run with her husband before she headed to work.

Gardezi had sent her an email with the details of what he had explained over the phone the night before, and she perused it carefully, hoping the connections that had been obvious to her probie were as clear to her. The case he referred to was pretty much as he had said: a man in the vegetable oil industry in Detroit had been procuring ethylene and sulfur monochloride. He had gotten the attention of property crimes when he reported the theft of some heavy duty industry-sized lab equipment, probably by someone who thought it would be useful in setting up a meth lab. He had apparently realized that involving the police had been a bad idea shortly thereafter, disappearing into the wind and leaving Detroit Homeland Security with vats of chemicals, a Canadian passport and work visa, and readings from some of the more radical Islam clerics.

As she read, Cunningham made notes to herself of things to be researched, or even just speculated: Was the lab equipment really stolen? What would he have gained from the police report? What had he thought the outcome would be? If it had really been stolen, did he think the police would be too busy/ignorant to look into a man with such equipment and chemicals? If it hadn't been stolen, why pretend it had been? Had he failed in either synthesis or distribution of mustards, and want to draw attention to how close he had been and how unsafe Americans really were? Or was it a diversion all along? If so, why? What had he gained?

She turned her attention to the Canadian passport and visa, and began jotting notes about those at well. Was the passport real, or a good forgery? How had he gotten to Canada? Had he been born there? If so, then what was his connection to Al-Shabaab and the Somalian writings he had left behind? Had nobody looked into his background before issuing a green card?

Well, she knew the answer to that one. Their border to the north was much more porous than the one to the south. Illegal immigration from Canada was practically a non-issue, because their economy was similar to that of the U.S. and their social programs much stronger. Rich Canadians sneaking across the borders to pay for medical procedures they didn't want to deal with the waiting lists in Canada for just brought more money into the U.S. healthcare system and was actually encouraged, even though both sides tended to frown on the opposite, when Americans went north for cheaper prescription medications. Cunningham's grandfather had been known to do that a few times.

People holding rallies and protesting Canadians taking jobs from hard-working Americans just didn't happen. Nobody stopped white people in the streets of northern Washington or Idaho to ask where they were born.

These were all things that terrorist organizations were well aware of. If you wanted to strike at the United States, you could go through Canada, because once there, it was just a matter of driving through a busy border crossing where people weren't looking too close at anything.

Hell, she once had a case where a guy drove a mobile meth lab through the border, because he thought he'd be able to get away with it. He hadn't, but the very fact that he thought he could was a testament to what those who lived close to the border thought of it.

She put aside the case reports from Detroit and focused on what they had on Omar Zahidi, the name that Cunningham had given Gardezi, remarkably close to Umer al-Zaidi, the name from Detroit. Anti-terrorism was like a small but extended family, where people didn't always get along, but still played nicely because, hell, they were family and you might need help from them someday. In addition to the members of her task force in California, both she and Gardezi had contacts in agencies that spanned the alphabet soup, and although there were no letters on the report she was currently reading, it had that NSA look about it and probably came from someone in Homeland Security.

And was ridiculously thin.

NSA focused on signals, and although they were vilified for tapping into Americans emails and phone calls, the thing they did best was connect dots. Sure, the content of an email may be important, but what's much more important is who the email is between. If John is sending Sue an email, they must know each other. They may be friends, or family, or co-conspirators. That was for an analyst to decide; it was the job of those giant supercomputers they had there to create those webs of contacts.

And in Zahidi's case, that web of contacts was mostly Muslim-Americans in the D.C. area, along with a number of chemists of varying ethnicities, which tended to get people's attention just because of the stuff they tended to buy in bulk. Notably absent from the list was anyone who seemed to have any connection to Somalia.

That didn't automatically make him a good guy, though. Also didn't automatically make him a bad one. He was still in the gray area, which is where most of the people she looked into seemed to live.

She was so engrossed in her reading that she hadn't been paying attention to the passage of time, much less to her surroundings, which were, admittedly, pretty easy to block out with her iPhone, noise-cancelling headphones, computer monitor, and tablet.

Which was why she was caught off guard when her tablet was suddenly removed from her hands.

She looked up to see her probie and former sergeant standing with her tablet in hand. "Gardezi," she said as she paused her music and removed her headphones. "You look like shit."

"Thanks, Skip," he replied, handing the tablet back.

"You need a shave," she continued. Back when they were both in the Corps, he used to shave twice a day in efforts of removing the five o'clock shadow that was usually visible before lunch. After a full day at work and transcontinental flight, he had more of a beard than Jeff did after a week of leave. "Let me introduce you around, and then you can brief us on Detroit and what you found."

"No time to shave first?" he asked, only partially in jest.

"You can do pushups later," she replied. "Special Agents Gibbs, McGee, and Wilson," she said, indicating the respective men. "Gentlemen, my probie, Special Agent Kazim Gardezi. He used to work for Detroit PD and may have had a case during that time that may help us figure out this mustard case thing."

He nodded slightly, looking around. "Where's your briefing room?" he finally asked.

"This is it," Cunningham replied, gesturing to the plasma screen.

"Really?" he asked in disbelief. "Well, I guess we can work with that. Skip?" he asked, handing over a CD, which she put into the computer, and he began talking. It was pretty much everything in the file: the Arab-Canadian industry worker in Detroit, the community college chemistry professor in Northern Virginia, the similarities of their names and professions, the chemicals they both purchased, the lack of any connection to Somalia.

"But he's Arab," Wilson said with a frown when Gardezi was done. "I thought African Arabs and black Africans didn't get along." Everyone turned to him with eyebrows raised. "What?" he asked defensively. "We're working an anti-terrorism case that has to do with Africa. I read up about African terrorism."

"Well, you're right," Gardezi said. "Sudan's the perfect example, with the split into Sudan and South Sudan and everything that's still going on in Darfur with the Janjaweed, but it's happening everywhere. That's why I think if al-Zaidi or Zahidi or whatever his name is is involved, he's more of a mercenary."

"For his chemistry skills."

"Right," Gardezi agreed.

"How do we find the guy in charge?" Gibbs asked, the first words Cunningham had heard out of his mouth all morning.

"If they have something planned, especially if it's supposed to happen on Wednesday—"

"That's tomorrow, by the way," Cunningham reminded her junior agent.

"I know," he assured her before turning back to Gibbs. "If they have something planned for tomorrow, we might not," he said honestly. "The stuff will involve the chemicals, which are likely still in Zahidi's possession. If we find him, we can stop him and stop the attack from happening."

"And save the ringleader for another day," Cunningham finished grimly. It was obviously not the ideal situation, but when given the choice between catching one terrorist and stopping an attack scheduled for the next day, she'll always opt for stopping the attack.


	38. Chapter 38

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 38**

* * *

Ziva David swiped at the screen of her iPad to turn the page on her Kindle novel. It was a free novel from the Kindle store, not bad, but a bit predictable. If it weren't for the long wait times at her obstetrician's office, she would be tempted to put it aside in favor of reading something more interesting, or even something work-related. But it was good enough entertainment for killing time in a waiting room that didn't have magazines.

"Mrs. DiNozzo?" the nurse called out, prompting Ziva to switch off the iPad and follow the nurse, barely refraining from rolling her eyes. Going to the doctor in a modernized but yet still somewhat traditional Muslim country was a bit of an ordeal for the Americans on base; for an Israeli Jewish woman, it was far more than a hassle. She had tried explaining that she did not go by her husband's name, but they either failed to understand or just didn't want to advertise who they had in their waiting room by using her real name. After all, a name didn't get much more Israeli than Ziva David.

"How have you been feeling?" the nurse asked in Arabic as she led Ziva to the screening room.

"Well," Ziva replied in the same language. They may not be happy about taking care of an Israeli, but at least she tried to appease them by speaking their language.

"Any contractions?"

"Occasionally," Ziva replied. "Nothing regular, and they do not last long. Only a few seconds." The Braxton-Hicks contractions had started a few weeks before, and were thus far only a mild annoyance.

"And your kick counts?"

"He is most active at night," Ziva replied. She wondered if that meant he had inherited his father's distaste of mornings. "He has slowed down the last week, but still more than ten kicks in two hours."

"Good," the nurse replied as she rolled up Ziva's shirt to reveal her large pregnant belly, measuring just how large it was before squirting on the gel and attaching the fetal monitors, the sound of a fast heartbeat distorted by the speakers filling the room. "Dr. Rahma will be in in about ten minutes."

"Thank you," Ziva replied as she pulled out her iPad again.

It was more than fifteen minutes later before the obstetrician came in, a tall and thin woman in her late thirties who wore a long white coat over expensive clothes and her dark hair uncovered in a bun at the nape of her neck. "Good morning, Mrs. DiNozzo," she said distractedly as she studied the monitors. "Baby's heart rate looks good, no contractions," she commented before picking up Ziva's chart. A frown began to appear as she looked up at Ziva. "Your blood pressure is still elevated," she said bluntly. "It is higher than last week's, in fact."

"I have not changed anything," Ziva replied.

"And your weight is two kilograms higher than it was a week ago."

"I assumed that was normal during pregnancy."

"Not that much, and not at in the third trimester. Have you noticed swelling in your legs?"

"I thought that—"

"What about shortness of breath when walking up the stairs?

"Yes."

"Difficulty breathing when lying down?"

"I thought—"

"I'm going to call the cardiologist," Dr. Rahma interrupted.

"The cardiologist?" Ziva echoed. "Why? What is wrong?"

"These symptoms may be signs of cardiomyopathy of pregnancy," the obstetrician explained. "Swelling of your heart. We do not know what causes it. We need an echocardiogram to evaluate."

"And treatment?"

Dr. Rahma frowned. "There is a regimen of drugs that you will have to be started on immediately. The exact drugs will depend on what the echocardiogram demostrates."

"And?" Ziva pressed. She didn't spend her entire adult life in the intelligence game without learning how to tell when people weren't telling her the whole story.

"You are at 37 weeks, which is full-term—"

"Dr. Rahma," Ziva interrupted impatiently.

"We will have to a cesarean section."

"When?"

"Today."

Ziva blinked in surprise before she collected herself. "But you need to do the echocardiogram first," she said, keeping her voice even. "And then we will discuss a cesarean section."

"Yes," Dr. Rahma said. She hesitated again before continuing. "There is a specialist in maternal and fetal medicine at the Navy base. I will consult her while you are meeting with the cardiologist. I do not have much experience with cardiomyopathy. She likely does."

"Alright," Ziva agreed, knowing that there was nothing else she could do but agree.

Five minutes later, she was the office of an elderly cardiologist who didn't say a single word to her as he scanned her heart, and then the only words he said were that he would email Dr. Rahma the results and that he should go back to her office, which Ziva did.

To find her obstetrician sitting with a woman in a Navy uniform who looked far too young to be a doctor. "You must be Mrs. DiNozzo," the Navy lieutenant commander said as she rose from her chair. Ziva decided not to correct her. "I'm Dr. Kerry Frey. Dr. Rahma told me about your case. I understand you just met with the cardiologist."

"Yes, but he did not tell me the results."

"I have them," Dr. Rahma said from her computer. Ziva only realized at that moment that that was the first time she had heard her speak English. Dr. Rahma turned to Dr. Frey and said, "EF is 30%."

"Okay," Dr. Frey said with a nod. She turned back to Ziva. "Normal ejection fraction is over 55%. You look like you're pretty athletic, so I'm guessing yours was even higher than that. And I'm guessing your heart is working pretty hard to keep that 30%. Which is why I think we should do a cesarean as soon as possible."

Ziva didn't understand half of what had just been said, but neither did she try. All she had heard was that last line. "What about medications?" she asked. "Dr. Rahma mentioned that there are medications that can be used."

"Yes," Dr. Frey said, nodding again. "And if you were less than 34 weeks pregnant, we would be starting you on them immediately and planning on doing a cesarean when you hit full term. Which is 37 weeks, where you are now. The best treatment is to deliver the baby and begin the medications right after."

"My husband…" Ziva began, realizing only at that second why this seemed so difficult. "My husband is out of town," she finally said. "Can this wait?"

"When he can be back?"

"I do not know," Ziva admitted. "He is on a mission."

"If he's Navy, they can—"

"He is not," Ziva interrupted and didn't elaborate further.

Dr. Frey sighed and frowned. "We can wait seven hours," she finally said. "And not a minute more. If you can get hold of your husband, tell him that's his time line."

* * *

Tony DiNozzo knew that his cover as a western businessman was gone sometime around when he ran out of clean clothes and hotels with working showers, but he no longer cared. This mission was no longer about spycraft and subterfuge.

It was about finding a man and arresting him.

The interviews with Mahamud took them to Baidoa and to a 'businessman' whose business seemed to be centered around getting stuff for Al-Shabaab. He very quickly gave up more names and even more locations, which somehow involved DiNozzo and Dunham crossing the border into Kenya and into Dadaab, home of the world's largest refugee camp, where humanitarian aid was occasionally used as a recruiting tool by Al-Shabaab.

And where they were told they could find the man who was behind not only the blackmailing of Kaseem Khalid, but also the plan to release mustard gas in Washington, D.C.

But first they had to find him among a series of refugee sub-camps that covered 50 square kilometers and housed 500,000 people.

They had gotten a good lead from their 'businessman' friend, who was very clear to state that he didn't know the exact location of Ahmed Haji, but as of January, he was 'pretty sure' that Haji was in Ibo II, one of the sub-camps that made up Dadaab, so that's where DiNozzo and Dunham headed. They tried to find out from legitimate humanitarian workers if anyone knew anything about Haji, but Doctors Without Borders blatantly refused to speak to them once they found out about their affiliation with the U.S. military, UNHCR claimed to know nothing, and nobody else even answered their questions.

It was going to be an interesting search.

His phone rang as he stepped back into the passenger seat of the Jeep Dunham had managed to procure in the town of Dadaab, Ziva's name on the display. "Hey," he greeted. "Sorry I didn't call you—"

_"Tony, listen to me,"_ she commanded, and he obeyed. He knew that tone of voice, even distorted by a bad cell phone connection. _"The doctors said they need to do a cesarean section today. They said they will wait seven hours for you to come home but no longer. Can you leave without compromising the mission?"_

"What?" he asked.

_"Dr. Rahma and a doctor from the base—"_

"No, I heard you, I mean, why do they need to a c-section today? You're still three weeks early."

_"They said there is a problem with my heart."_

"With your heart?"

_ "Yes, Tony, it is related to the pregnancy and they need to deliver the baby. I asked if they could wait, and they said that they cannot."_

"I'm coming home," he said immediately. "Forget the mission." If it was bad enough that they needed to deliver the baby right away, then it was bad enough that he had to be there.

_"No, Tony, you cannot forget the mission,"_ Ziva said patiently. _"Not this mission."_ He knew she didn't say anything else because of the fact that they were on an unsecured connection, but he knew what she was saying—not when they were tracking down terrorists who wanted to attack the capital of the United States. _"If you can come home without compromising the mission, then please come home. If not, we will see you when you come home."_

We. There was going to be a 'we' waiting for him when he came home, because he was going to have a baby in seven hours whether or not he was there. "Okay," he said. "I'll see you in a few hours. I love you, Ziva."

_"I love you, too."_ She ended the call before he did, as always, and for a second after he hung up, he stared out at the dusty landscape that surrounded them before he turned to Dunham.

"We have seven hours to find this guy and get back to Bahrain," he informed him. "I don't care what it takes. Let's go."


	39. Chapter 39

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 39**

* * *

Tim McGee blinked hard a few times and barely managed to slam on the breaks to avoid the car on the Beltway in front of him. "Please stay awake while you're driving, McGee," Kim Cunningham said from the front seat her eyes still on her tablet.

"I haven't slept in… I don't know how long it's been," he complained.

"Deal with it," she replied, her eyes still on the tablet on her lap. "I used to stay awake for days at a time back in Iraq."

"Are you serious?" Wilson asked from the backseat.

"We're not in a war," McGee pointed out, ignoring his junior agent

"We're not?" Kim asked mildly, looking over at him with eyebrows raised, an amused expression on her face. "When we were in Iraq, we were chasing after people who wanted to do bad things to Americans. Wilson, what are we doing right now?"

"Chasing after people who wanted to do bad things to Americans?" he replied, stating it as a question.

"It's not the same thing," he protested, even though he had no idea why he was arguing about the definition of war against a former Marine Corps MP officer who currently worked anti-terrorism. "And no using my junior agent against me."

"I would use mine, but Gibbs took him." They split up the Arabic speakers in the search for Omar Zahidi—or Umer al-Zaidi, whoever he was—with Gibbs taking Special Agent Gardezi to NOVA, the community college where Zahidi taught chemistry, and McGee taking Kim and Wilson to his home in Fairfax county. Nobody was really all that confident that they would find the man at his work, seeing as it was a school and it was July, but as Gardezi pointed out, he would probably have the equipment necessary to do whatever he needed to do to make mustard gas there, thus avoiding the problem of raising red flags by buying similar stuff for his home. Kim had argued that if they really thought he was going to release it the next day, he probably would have finished the synthesis already, but Gibbs ended any further discussion by announcing that they would split up and search both locations.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but the pessimist in him made McGee doubt they would find him at either his home or work.

He was beginning to stare too hard at the bumper of the car in front of him again when Kim's personal cell phone rang, some upbeat song coming from the iPhone's speakers. "Hey, babe," she said when she answered. "Baby? What are you talking about?" she asked a minute later. "Oh, that's right. James Tiberius Simple. Well, maybe it should be." McGee could only guess what Jeff Cunningham's half of the conversation was, but based on the fact that their friend was pregnant and due the previous Saturday, he would have been willing to bet that the baby was born. "Yes, I know… No, I haven't been looking at the pictures, Jeff, because I've been working non-stop… Fine," she said, exasperated. She pulled the phone from her ear and must have put it on speaker, and after a few seconds, said, "Yup. That's a baby."

_"You're impossible,"_ Dr. Cunningham's voice floated out from the phone.

"And yet, you married me," she shot back.

_"Momentary lapse of judgment,"_ he replied. _"Are you coming home tonight?"_

"Probably not," she replied. "I'd love to be optimistic and say that we're about to catch this guy and I'll be out of here right after booking, but realistically, probably not. Give my love to the Simpletons, okay?"

_"I will. We—me, the Andersons, and the Moxes, anyway—will plan on seeing you at the Mall tomorrow."_

"Oh, hell no," Kim replied, quickly and emphatically. "I don't want any of you within five miles of the Mall tomorrow."

_"Well, then, you—"_

"It's my job, Jeff," Kim interrupted. "I don't complain when you spend time with patients with malaria—"

_"Malaria's not contagious,"_ he interrupted.

"Shut up," she commanded. "TB, then. That's dangerous, right?"

_"I wear a mask when I see TB patients. Are you going to be in MOPP gear tomorrow?"_

"Nope," she replied. "I'll give you a call to touch base with you later, okay?"

McGee heard a sigh from the phone. _"Okay. Don't forget to eat something and try to get some sleep, okay?"_

"I'll try, and I'll try," she replied. "Love you."

_"I love you, too. Be careful."_

Kim hit the 'End' button and sighed as she leaned back into the seat. "Jeff doesn't want you out working this case?" McGee asked.

"No," Kim said bluntly. "To be fair, though, I'm not supposed to be in the field at all. And then you throw in chemical weapons and the whole situation gets a bit tense."

"You can't blame him for being worried." He didn't know exactly how being exposed to mustard gas would affect a baby, but he didn't think it would be a good thing. And Jeff Cunningham probably knew for sure just how far from a good thing it would be.

"He knows what I do for a living," Kim countered. "Never lied about that."

"I understand why he wouldn't you on the Mall tomorrow," McGee continued. "I'm probably going to tell Harley to stay away."

"But it's not her job," she said. "If we don't secure the mustards and the guy controlling them today, then trying to prevent a terrorist attack on the Mall tomorrow is exactly my job. Those exact words might actually be in my contract." She frowned and looked over at him. "Besides, your girlfriend is training for a job where she'll be flying airplanes that are, by definition, not fully tested."

"I've never thought about it that way," he said. Harley's job was Harley's job; it was just what she did and he didn't think about the details of it, but Kim was right—she was going to be the one doing the first safety checks to make sure the engineers were right when they said it could safely go into the air.

"Speaking of Harley, do you know what you're going to do yet?" Kim asked.

"Do about what?" Wilson asked from the backseat.

"Nothing," McGee said.

"She might be going to Yuma," Kim countered, talking directly to Wilson. "And she asked McGee if he wanted to go with her."

"You have to go," Wilson said automatically. "If you get asked to move with a girl and you don't, it's over. You can't recover from that. And it's Harley. That's one you don't want to lose."

"I know," McGee muttered. He didn't want to be talking about this right now. He knew that everything Wilson said was true, but he also knew what Wilson wasn't saying: moving for one person's job was an irreversible step. You didn't do that unless you were ready to talk about marriage. McGee didn't have to look far to see examples of that: Tony and Ziva moved together and ended up married a month later. Kim moved to San Diego after Jeff had been held captive in Yemen, and now they were married and expecting a baby. He loved Harley, but they really hadn't spent enough time together to know if forever was an option.

He wondered if that was the cause of the tension between Gibbs and Gracy. Or Gibbs' recent worse-than-usual mood.

He continued to ponder that as they drove in silence, Kim reading something on her tablet and Wilson snoring in the back seat, and then they pulled up to the address on Omar Zahidi's driver's license. "Wilson, go around to the back," McGee ordered. "Kim and I will take the front."

"Sure," the junior agent agreed as he checked his weapon before moving the safety to fire and reholstering it live, and then they were out of the car, Wilson going around to the back of the small house while McGee and Kim approached the front door.

"Is there any particular way to play this?" McGee asked.

"Not really," she replied as she knocked on the door. "Dr. Zahidi?" she called out. "Federal agents. Please open the door." They waited over a minute with no response. "Dr. Zahidi," Kim called out again, this time knocking with more force. "We have a warrant to search the premises."

Again, nothing.

"Well, we announced we have a warrant," Kim said with a shrug. "Let's go in."

Surprisingly, the door was unlocked, which was beyond suspicious. Judging by the way she pulled her SIG from her holster, Kim agreed. "Dr. Zahidi," she called out, before switching to Arabic and saying something McGee had no idea of following. Probably that they were entering the house, because that was what she said in English right after.

"Aww, shit," they heard Wilson's voice say from the kitchen. They made their way there, continuing to clear rooms as they did.

"Shit," Kim echoed, the same time McGee comprehended what they were looking at: a dead Arab at the kitchen table, his neck broken. "I'll call Ducky," she said to McGee. "You want to let Gibbs know what we found?"

"Is it Zahidi?" McGee asked.

"Pretty sure," Kim replied grimly. "Ducky'll have to confirm."

_"What've you got, McGee?"_ Gibbs asked when he picked up.

"A dead body," McGee replied. "Pretty sure it's Zahidi. He was murdered."

There was a stretch of silence on the other end. _"Any sign of chemical weapons?"_

"We haven't performed a search yet," McGee admitted.

_"Do that. We have nothing at his work. Call Ducky."_

"Already on it," McGee replied, then realized he was talking to a dead line. Gibbs had already hung up.

* * *

Naxar Gallat Egal watched the police officers from his van down the street as they entered Zahidi's house, and was still watching an hour later when a large van pulled up, two more men exiting and making their way in Zahidi's house, dressed in dark blue overalls. The coroner, he was guessing.

So they found Zahidi. Which meant they had been looking for Zahidi. He wondered if it had anything to do with Zahidi's latest work or if it was because of the idiot's sloppy job in Michigan.

He had to assume it was because they knew about Zahidi's recent work synthesizing the mustard gas. Which meant that they might be on him as well.

He wondered if he still had the element of surprise. He decided that the very fact that they were searching Zahidi's house meant that they didn't know that the Arab chemist had turned over the tanks of mustard a week ago, which meant that they were still not onto him.

The plan was still a go.

In another 24 hours, Americans would know the same fears of public gatherings that every Somali who had lived in his country in the last twenty years knows. Never again would they come together in such public places without fear of coming under attack, by gunfire, by bombs, by chemical weapons.

He was going to show them that there were consequences to their actions. That they couldn't just go into other countries and interfere, the way they have been doing the last twenty years. That when they intentionally kept a country weak, all they were doing was strengthening those who lived inside of it.


	40. Chapter 40

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 40**

* * *

It took two hours of searching for Ahmed Haji after they arrived at Ibo II before Tony DiNozzo did something he should have as soon as they arrived: he gave a kid a candy bar and asked if he knew where Haji was. The kid was more than happy to show them the way, a huge change from the aid workers and camp employees, who were either terrified as soon as they heard the name or just pretended that they didn't know what DiNozzo and Dunham were talking about.

They found Haji in an aid tent, exchanging food tickets for bags of corn meal, a tall and thin Somalian that didn't fit the picture DiNozzo had in his head at all. "Ahmed Haji?" he asked.

"Yes?" the man replied pleasantly, an almost smug smile on his face, as if he knew who DiNozzo and Dunham were and had already planned how this encounter would go. Probably because he had. So DiNozzo decided to throw him a curve ball.

"We're from the World Food Program," he said. "I'm Tony Dinallo, and this is Dr. Derek Chad. We're doing an assessment for reallocation. We understand that you've been keeping the numbers for Ibo II."

A look of confusion briefly crossed Haji's face before his entire demeanor changed. "Yes, yes, of course," he said quickly. "Please, let me show you the records for the last six months." He turned in his chair, pulling three binders off a shelf.

"I hope you have a plan for this," Dunham murmured to DiNozzo under his breath in English.

"We'll see," DiNozzo murmured back.

"You watching the clock?" Dunham asked. DiNozzo figured the look he gave was response enough.

Of course he was watching the clock. By his calculations, he would have to find a plane willing to take him back to Bahrain within the hour if he wanted to make it back in time.

"Here we are," Haji said, turning back to them. He then proceeded to explain his system of organization and how he had been able to track the influx of refugees into Ibo II by the food distributions.

DiNozzo let him talk for about five minutes before he cut him off. "And where do you mark the kickbacks to Al-Shabaab members?" he asked, feigning curiosity. "And what about the protections of families of those who died fighting Kenyan forces?"

Haji opened his mouth before quickly closing it. "I do not know what you are talking about," he said coldly. "I am an aid worker—"

"Who just happens to have everyone in his camp afraid of him?" DiNozzo interrupted.

"I only want what is best for Somalis," Haji replied.

"I believe you," DiNozzo said agreeably. "I think we just have a different definition of what is best for your country."

"We have no country," Haji said, his voice heating up. "We have had fourteen different governments in twenty years. That is not a country; that is a disaster. There is no food for our families, no hope for our children. Nobody should live the way we have lived."

"And your solution is joining with Al-Qaeda?" DiNozzo asked dryly.

"I distribute aid—"

"You are a terrorist," DiNozzo interrupted. "We know it, you know it, half of this camp knows it. And you would be doing all of us a big favor if you would just admit it so we can move on."

The smug look reappeared on Haji's face as he leaned back in his chair. "I do not know what you are talking about," he said simply. "I am an aid worker. I am not a terrorist."

DiNozzo ignored the denial. "There is a plan to attack the United States this week."

"I am sure I do not know anything about that."

"You were named as the one responsible for blackmailing an American engineer for plans to American landmarks."

"I am sure you are mistaken."

"Your cell phone has been making a lot of calls to the United States."

"How did you—" Haji cut himself off. "You are making that up."

"Am I?" DiNozzo challenged, grateful that he had finally gotten this guy to make a mistake. "Are you willing to risk that I'm not?"

"If you knew for sure half of the things that you think you know, you would have arrested me already."

"Arrest you?" DiNozzo asked with a slight laugh. "No, we have no intention of arresting you. We were going to let them do it." He gestured behind him, where three Kenyan military vehicles were blocking the road away from the aid distribution point, uniformed soldiers with AK-47s waiting in and around them.

There was no love lost between the Kenyans and Somalis. Not only had Kenya been experiencing an unwanted population boom from their neighbors to the north crossing into their lands, but by international law, host countries were responsible for the sheltering, feeding, and securing of refugees from other countries, which made the Somali problem very much a Kenyan problem, especially when draughts had made it difficult to feed their own people and Somali refugees made a practice of attacking Kenyan cities.

"They have nothing, either," Haji scoffed. "If they had thought I was a terrorist, they would have come after me long ago. And they would not have been nice about it. Are you sure they are who you would have as your friends?"

"They have no plans to attack my country," DiNozzo said with a shrug. "At this point in the game, that's pretty much the same as friendship in my book." He leaned forward. "If they're not nice, I assume you want nothing to do with them, right?" Haji eyed him suspiciously. "Tell me what I need to know, and I make sure they don't come anywhere near you."

Haji appeared to think about it for a minute before shrugging. "I am sure I do not know what you are talking about," he said.

DiNozzo knew that, realistically, men like Ahmed Haji took a long time to break, time that he didn't have. Even if it weren't for the fact that he had to get back to Ziva before they wheeled her into the operating room, it was almost July 4th back in D.C., and while he had full faith in Kim Cunningham's abilities to find terrorists, it would be nice if he could give her a little help. Like the name of the man who had control of the chemical weapon or whatever they were going to use to attack the nation's capital.

"Okay," he finally said, shrugging. He rose from his chair and looked over at Dunham. "We're wasting our time," he said, still speaking Arabic, making sure Haji could understand what he was saying. "He clearly doesn't know anything. We should tell the soldiers to take him away."

They were halfway to their Jeeps and the Kenya soldiers halfway to Haji when the aid worker/terrorist called out, "Wait." DiNozzo and Dunham turned expectantly. "I may have heard something at the camp," Haji said.

"Well?" DiNozzo asked.

"Naxar Gallat Egal," Haji replied. "That is his real name. I do not know what name he goes by in America."

"And?" DiNozzo prompted.

"I do not know anything further."

Special Agent Tony DiNozzo didn't get where he was in life without knowing when someone was lying, but he didn't have time for that right now. "Take him," he said in English to the soldiers.

Haji's protests didn't bother him at all.

* * *

Ziva David didn't protest when the nurse came to prep her for surgery at hour five of seven, because she knew that the cesarean would happen in two hours whether or not Tony was there, but she did protest an hour an hour and a half later, when that same nurse came back to tell Ziva that it was time.

"I have half an hour," she reminded the nurse.

"Dr. Frey and Dr. Rahma said that they want you in the operating room," the nurse replied.

"I need to call my husband," Ziva insisted.

"No phones in the operating room."

"Then let me call him now."

She really hoped that he had his phone on him, but when the Somali burner phone informed him that the number was out of service, she felt her spirits fall. On impulse, she tried his usual cell phone.

_"Hey,"_ he replied, her barely hearing the word over the background noise on his end of the call. _"I'm in the back of the C-130. I'm almost home."_

"Where are you?"

There was a long stretch of background noise before he came back. _"All they're saying is over Saudi. Less than an hour, Ziva. I promise. Ask them to wait."_

"I will try, Tony."

She let the nurse wheel her into the operating room and managed a smile for the anesthesiologist, a younger man with a beard behind his surgical mask. "We need to do a spinal block for your anesthesia," he informed her before going into the risks and benefits of the procedure and asking if she agreed. He was the expert; of course she agreed, and then he asked her to sit up and lean over so he could do the procedure.

Almost exactly on schedule, Dr. Frey and Dr. Rahma entered the operating room, both holding their hands up in that way they always did on television to show that they were scrubbed in. "My husband is flying back now," Ziva informed them. "He should be here in half an hour. Can we wait?"

Dr. Frey frowned and looked over at the anesthesiologist. "Dr. Bukowa?" she prompted.

"I cannot control her blood pressure," the younger doctor admitted. "It is still elevated, at 153/97."

"I'm sorry, Ziva," Dr. Frey said, and to her credit, her eyes—the only part of her face that was visible behind her surgical mask—did look genuinely apologetic. "We need to operate now."

Ziva nodded her assent, and less than eight minutes later, she heard a weak cry from the other side of the sheet that separated her head from her belly. "It's a boy," Dr. Frey announced. "Born at 1822 on the fourth of July."

They cleaned him up before handing him back to his mother, and Ziva couldn't get over how small and defenseless he looked, his face puffy and looking almost upset, as if he couldn't believe that somebody had ripped him out of the warm and wet home he had been in for the last eight and a half months.

And then he opened his eyes, and two sets of dark eyes met from less than a foot away, and damn it if she didn't hate it when Tony was right.

"Hello, Danny."


	41. Chapter 41

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 41**

_A/N: Sorry about being late... I would blame the computer, but I couldn't figure out how to end the chapter until now. Sorry._

* * *

Special Agent Kim Cunningham's BlackBerry rang right as she was sliding her shield onto her belt. "DiNozzo," she said as a greeting. "You're on your BlackBerry. Back in Bahrain?"

_"On my way there,"_ he replied, the words barely audible over the droning of whatever aircraft he was currently riding on.

"You know phones can cause planes to crash, right?" she asked, not able to resist the temptation to tease.

_"I'm pretty sure they proved that to be false,"_ he replied. _"I got a name for you."_

"Go ahead, I'm ready," she replied, waving Gardezi over before grabbing a pen and sticky note.

_"Naxar Gallat Egal,"_ he said. It was a Somali name, but she did her best to sound it out in Arabic as she transcribed. She pulled off the note and handed it to her junior agent, who immediately pulled his phone from his pocket as he sat at a computer.

"Where'd you get the name?" she asked. Anyone could give any sort of name; it was the background behind it that gave it credibility.

_"Ahmed Haji,"_ he replied. It was so generically Arab that she didn't bother writing it down. _"He's at Dadaab, works as a food distributor at Ibo II."_

"Al-Shabaab?"

_"He didn't say it in so many words, but yeah. And everyone over twelve is terrified of him. Except MSF, who just refused to talk to us."_

"I hate those guys," Cunningham muttered. Jeff had mentioned maybe joining _Medecins Sans Frontieres_, or Doctors Without Borders, when he was done with the Navy, but with how much they despised anything that looked like a military uniform, she doubted they would hire him. "Okay. Thanks, DiNozzo. I'll keep you posted."

_"Any luck on your end?"_

"We found the chemist."

_"That's good."_

"He was dead in his kitchen and there was no sign of chemical weapons."

_"That's not so good."_

"Maybe we'll get some luck with Egal," Cunningham replied. She checked her watch. "I gotta go, DiNozzo. We're setting up the mobile command center at the Mall."

_"And you're going?"_

She knew what she was asking, and it had actually come up at 2000 the evening before, when Jeff brought Chinese food for the team: should she be even remotely close to where a chemical weapon might be deployed? Somebody was going to have to stay behind to run point, so why shouldn't it be her? After much debating among the team, they decided that they needed somebody who worked in anti-terrorism to run the mobile command center, which left Cunningham and Gardezi; unfortunately, Gardezi was much too junior, which meant he was staying at NCIS and Kim would be going to the Mall. "I'm running the thing," she informed him. "So much for staying out of the field."

If DiNozzo had a response to that, she completely missed it; the beeping from her phone told her that the connection had been lost.

She shrugged that aside and turned back to her probie. "DiNozzo got the name from an Ahmed Haji," she informed him. "Somali aid worker in Dadaab, out of Ibo II."

"I will try to verify," he said with a nod, his eyes still on the computer screen as he quickly typed, a headset and microphone taking the place of his phone.

"I'm going to need a BOLO on Egal," she continued.

"I'm on hold with CBP," he replied, referring to Customs and Border Patrol. "If he's in the country legally, they will get a picture for us."

"Okay," she said with a nod. He knew how to do his job, that was for sure. "Keep me posted. McGee, are we ready to roll out?"

"Whenever you are," the HQ senior field agent replied.

The mobile command center itself was courtesy of the FBI, who always had all the fun toys to play with, especially this close to Quantico. This one, a computer center the size of a tractor trailer that opened on one side to connect to a tented area, was the largest Cunningham had ever seen, which was probably necessary considering how much of the alphabet soup was out to play that day. McGee immediately went to a computer console that had been reserved for NCIS, and Cunningham joined Gibbs at the center table. "What'd you find?" he asked as she approached.

"Possibly a name," she replied, quickly summarizing DiNozzo's phone call. "Gardezi is working on confirmation and a BOLO. I'm hoping we'll get something from CBP. A picture will make this run a lot smoother."

He nodded and took a drink of coffee. Many would have found that unusual considering the temperature, but Cunningham knew better than to judge Marines on their coffee drinking habits. Because she had once been a Marine with odd coffee drinking habits. "You ready to brief the group?" he asked.

Cunningham looked out at the assembled special agents, officers, investigators, and others, most milling around waiting for instructions, instructions that she was supposed to give. She took a deep breath and raised her fingers to her mouth to give a loud whistle, but before she could begin to blow through her lips, a man in a FBI tee-shirt shouted out, "Hey, listen up. I'm Special Agent Keith Chapman. I'm in charge here—"

"Okay, stop," Cunningham interrupted, annoyed. "Let's step outside."

"And who are you?" Chapman asked without moving, a look akin to disgust on his face as he sized her up. Not that there was much to size up in a special agent who didn't top five feet and weighed 95 pounds.

"Special Agent Kim Cunningham," she replied, matching his tone. "And I'm the one in charge here."

"Says who?"

"Says my director, your director, the Secretary of Homeland Security, the chief of Metro PD, the commander of the Park Police… I forget the rest. But I've got the memo on my tablet if you need to see it." She gave him a hard stare before pointedly turned away, back to the crowd. "Sorry about that," she said loudly, stepping up on a chair so she could be seen. "I'm Special Agent Kim Cunningham, head of anti-terrorism for NCIS. I'm actually the one in the charge here, and if anyone has any problems with that, you can take it up with your director. _Tomorrow._" She emphasized the last word strongly and paused. "Today, we have something more important to do." She explained Egal, his nationality, what Dr. Gracy had said about his height, the white van involved in Agent Ruiz's death, the fact that they were working on getting them a picture. "Before I get into what everyone's going to be doing, the blond man in the back is my husband, Jeff." She smirked at him as she watched his face turn pink, giving a slight wave to the group. His presence was part of the compromise between him and Vance that put Kim in the tent. "He's a doctor," she continued. "Which means that other than to go to George Washington to help set up a decon station in an hour, he doesn't leave this tent. Anyone who lets him will be answering to me later." There was a smattering of laughter, which Cunningham just raised her eyebrow at.

"Okay," she finished. "Let's get started."

* * *

Tony DiNozzo ran from the back of the plane as soon as the door was lowered, and didn't stop until he got to Freiler's car. "Hospital. Go," he said simply.

Freiler, for his credit, didn't stop until they were in front of the hospital, and then only long enough for DiNozzo to hop out of the car. "I'll go park," he said, getting only the slam of the passenger door in response.

Fortunately, Tony and Ziva had had a tour of the labor deck two weeks before, so he knew the way as he ran through the hospital. "You must be Mr. DiNozzo," a voice said, stopping him. He turned to see a young woman with curly light hair in scrubs. "Your wife and son are in the recovery room."

"My wife and…"

He had a son.

The woman smiled slightly and pointed down the hall. "The recovery room is that way," she said, pointing.

He went the way she indicated and quickly found his wife, sitting up in bed, her eyes fixed down on the small bundle in her arms with a smile on her face that he had never seen before and stopped him dead in his tracks. "Come in, Tony," Ziva said, her eyes not wavering from the bundle. The baby. "Come meet your son."

He finally figured out how to move his feet again and headed into the room, giving Ziva a kiss on the top of her head before looking down at the baby. Their son. "Daniel Elijah DiNozzo," Ziva said, "meet your dad."

"Daniel?" Tony asked, fighting a smile. Ziva nodded.

"He looks like a Danny," she said.

"He does," Tony agreed. "Can I hold him?" Ziva handed Danny over, and even though Tony could count on one hand the number of times he had held a baby, he was only a little afraid he was going to break the little guy. "Hi, Danny," he said. "Happy Fourth of July." He smiled slightly. "Happy Independence Day, buddy."


	42. Chapter 42

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 42**

* * *

Kim Cunningham looked up from the notes she had taken of her conversation with the Park Police Investigator to scan the tent area. When she didn't see the blond head of her husband, she checked her watch and figured he was still at George Washington, helping to set up the decontamination area. Just to be sure, though, she pulled out her iPhone.

"Hey," she said when he picked up. "Still at the hospital?"

_"Just finishing up. Did you need something?"_

Now that he mentioned it… "Is there a smoothie place on your way back?"

There was a brief pause on the other end. _"I think I saw one as we walked over,"_ he finally said. _"What kind?"_

"Something tropical. I feel like mangoes." She would blame that one on the evil fetus, but she did like mangoes. "If they don't have that, chocolate, peanut butter, and banana."

_"In your usual ridiculously large size?"_

"You know me too well."

_"I'll be back soon."_

"Thanks, babe. Love you."

_"I love you, too." _

She ended the call just in time for her BlackBerry to ring. "Hey, Gardezi," she greeted. "What've you got for me?"

_"A picture,"_ he said. _"CBP got Egal entering the country through Detroit in 2009."_

"Send it in," she ordered.

_"Already on your tablet,"_ he replied.

"I knew I hired you for a reason," she said. "Thanks, Gardezi. Keep me posted."

_"You got it, Skip."_ She hung up the phone and brought up the email on her tablet, immediately forwarding it to everyone in the tent area.

"Listen up!" she shouted out. "I just forwarded you the picture of the man we're looking for, Naxar Gallat Egal." She watched as everyone, almost as one, grabbed their tablets and phones to see what she had just sent. "We already discussed patrols of the area and Metro stations, so keep that picture in mind as you do it. And forward it to your people who are out now. Park Police," she asked, turning to the small group of investigators from that agency, "any luck getting an engineer?"

"That's me," a small man with thick glasses announced.

"Good," she said, heading toward him with a dismissive 'as you were' wave to everyone else. "Let's chat. I'm Kim."

"Greg," he replied with a nod. "Andy explained what you were looking for."

"A method of aerosolizing or otherwise distributing sulfur mustard, likely related to one of the blueprints we had received," she summed up.

"Exactly," he said, nodding again. He pulled out an iPad. "Based on existing structures and distribution systems, this is actually the most likely location," he said, showing her a location. She frowned.

"That's in Virginia," she pointed out.

"Right," he agreed. "I'm guessing you're looking for somewhere where there'll be more people?"

"There's a reason this mobile command center is located on the Mall."

"What about the WWII Memorial?"

Cunningham frowned and turned to see her husband standing a foot behind her, holding two smoothies. He handed over the larger to her. "Thanks, babe," she said, taking a long drink of the cold beverage. Definitely something tropical. "You want some?" she offered. He gave her a funny look as he shook his head.

"It has pineapple," he informed her. She was choosing to blame the lack of sleep for the temporary lapse of memory of his pineapple allergy. She wondered briefly if the evil fetus could have gotten his allergies, then decided that he probably wouldn't have given her something with pineapple if that were relevant. She took another long drink of the smoothie and pushed that thought aside.

"What were you saying about the WWII Memorial?" she asked, getting back on track. "Oh, this is Greg, an engineer with the Park Police. Greg, my husband Jeff."

"Nice to meet you," Jeff greeted with a nod before turning back to his wife. "It has a fountain, which is going to be the best distribution system close to all the people on the Mall. Actually, that would be best," he said, pointing to the Washington Monument, "if the bad guys could rig a distribution point up at the top, because mustards are heavier than air. But it's still closed, right?"

Greg the engineer nodded the affirmative as Kim frowned, deep in thought. "Both Carter and Ruiz were found near the WWII Memorial," she finally said. "But I don't think Khalid…" Her voice trailed off and she turned back to Greg. "Are the WWII Memorial and Reflecting Pool connected in any way?"

"The water systems are," he replied automatically.

"Khalid didn't have plans for the WWII Memorial, but he did for the Reflecting Pool," she said to explain her thinking. "I think Jeff's right. I think that's our location."

That declaration created all sorts of flurries of activity, which started with Cunningham getting everyone in the tent area with decontamination training to report to Jeff and continuing with the bomb squad from the FBI heading out to the WWII Memorial. Both Gibbs and McGee went out with the bomb squad to watch for Egal, and Jeff went out to lead immediate decon measures if anything went awry, and Kim remained firmly in the tent and away from any action by the orders of both Jeff and Gibbs.

She hated to be away from the action, but she knew that in this case, they were right.

_"We got something,"_ she heard the head of the bomb squad announce in the radio. _"Three metal tanks hooked up to the water line. Appears they're on a timer."_

"Can you get them out safely?" Cunningham asked.

_"Standby,"_ he replied. A minute later, he continued, _"Affirmative. Starting now."_

She breathed a sigh of relief. It had taken more hours of work than she cared to think about and more coffee than she would ever admit to Jeff, but they had stopped a terrorist attack.

So why didn't it feel like it was over yet?

That was still nagging at her as she listened to the progress from the bomb squad, prompting her to pick up her BlackBerry. "Hey," she greeted. "Bomb squad found three tanks hooked up to the water line of the WWII Memorial," she informed him.

_"Any sign of Egal?"_ he asked.

"Nope," she replied.

_"You're worried he has a back-up plan."_

"Pretty much," she acknowledged. "It doesn't feel done yet. What did you find out about him?"

_"I'm still working on getting anything good," _he said. _"He came into the country three years ago on a tourist visa, said he was visiting family in Columbus. No records of him leaving."_

"He went into the Somali underground."

_"Looks like it," _Gardezi agreed. It was unfortunately easy for people to disappear once they entered the country; jobs that paid in cash kept people from having to visit banks or carry credit cards, buses were cheap transportation around the country and didn't check for ID, seedy apartments rarely did background checks or bothered to alert the authorities of suspicious people. _"There isn't much record of what he did in Somalia, either, because Somalia doesn't keep very good records of anything."_

"What's his back-up plan?" she asked.

There was a stretch of silence on the other end of the phone. _"Keeping one or two tanks in the van and driving, release valve pointed out the window,"_ Gardezi finally said.

"Roads closest to the Mall are closed," she informed him. Between the parade that morning and routine security, the area was mostly only open to walkers.

_"What about close to the Metro?"_ he asked. _"Concert starts at 1800 and fireworks at 2110. Those are going to be your busy times around the Metro."_

She checked her watch; almost 1500, which meant people would be coming out of the Metro stations for the concert soon. "Where's the concert?"

_"The one at 1800 is the Southwest Grounds of the Washington Monument. The concert at the Capitol starts at 2000."_

"Closest Metro station to the Southwest Grounds?"

_"Smithsonian,"_ he replied.

"Gotcha," she acknowledged. "I think Metro has its own cops who can monitor stations for suspicious activity. See if you can find out who has authority to close them."

_"Will do,"_ he promised.

Cunningham continued working on the back-up plan and getting hold of people from the Metro system while the bomb squad team from the FBI worked on removing the tanks they found, and she really had no way of keeping track of time, which is why she was thrown off when Jeff reappeared, blond hair stuck to his forehead and his clothes sweated through. "Hey," she said, concerned. "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be supervising the decon in case anything goes wrong?"

"We're done," he said, puzzled. "No incident. Tanks definitely had sulfur mustard. Do we have any water? I was at MOPP 3 for two hours."

"Yeah, of course," she said, gesturing to the pallets of water the Park Police had brought in.

"Why are you still in hard-charging mode?" he asked after draining one water bottle and opening the next. "We stopped the attack."

"We don't have the bad guy," she replied. "And we don't know if he has a back-up plan."

"Ah," he replied, handing over the newly opened bottle. "Drink."

She knew better than to argue with him and downed half the bottle without taking a breath. "Any heat casualties while you were out there?"

"No, surprisingly enough," he replied. "What's your theory on the back-up plan?"

"Opening up a tank of this stuff in the Metro," she replied. She looked down at her tablet, where she was getting up-to-the-minute updates from WMATA cops and everyone they had patrolling. "We have people looking at the Smithsonian, Federal Triangle, and Archives stations; we've circulated the picture—"

"Take a breath," Jeff interrupted. He waited for her to do that. "Okay. What're we missing?"

She didn't know why, but she checked her watch. "The concert," she said, looking up at him with eyes wide. "It starts in an hour. I'm pretty sure it's on that stage near the Washington Monument, which is lowest area around…" If the guy knew anything about using chemical weapons, which she assumed he did, he would stand on the hill near the monument and point the stuff toward the stage, where it would all fall down on the people gathered there. "Gibbs, McGee," she said, seeing the two NCIS agents. "Is the area around the WWII Memorial cleared out, or is the FBI still there? If he sees them, he'll immediately know something's up.

"I think the FBI is still there," McGee replied as he grabbed a bottle of water.

"Shit," Cunningham muttered under her breath. "We need presence near the concert on the lawn of the Washington Monument—"

_"Suspicious male coming out of the Smithsonian Metro station,"_ her radio crackled. _"Black male, maybe middle aged, dragging what appears to be a mobile oxygen tank."_

"Search it," Cunningham snapped into the radio. She'll deal with the ACLU complaints later if it turned out to that they were going after sick old men.

_"Roger,"_ the voice replied. Cunningham closed her eyes and leaned down against the table, waiting for the word. This could be it. She really hoped this would be it.

_"Officer down!"_ Those were not the words she was looking for, and judging by the reactions of the others in the tent, those were not the words anyone else was looking for. _"Oh, god! He was stabbed!"_

"That's our guy!" Cunningham shouted, beginning to run out of the tent, right after Gibbs.

"No!" Jeff shouted as he began running. "Kim, _do not go!_" She wanted to reply that it was her job, that it was what she was supposed to do, that he should be the one not going. "_Stop her!_" he shouted at nobody in particular, not breaking stride. The man was a runner, recently broken leg or not, and quickly overtook Gibbs in his pursuit of Egal.

McGee tried to stop her, but she didn't even have to exert any effort to knock him on the ground. "Don't do it, Kim," he called out as she continued running. "You're pregnant!"

One of the FBI agents effortlessly lifted her off the ground, throwing her over his shoulder and holding down her legs so she couldn't kick him; it was a move her friend Anderson used to do when they were sparring and she knew she was had. The FBI agent waited until she stopped struggling to ask, "You done?"

"That's my husband," she said, barely able to form the words. "And that's not…" Running after people with chemical weapons wasn't his job, not by far and especially not while wearing nothing but a tee-shirt and khakis.

From the moment they had met, protecting him had been exactly her job.

And right now, she felt like she was failing at that when he needed it the most.


	43. Chapter 43

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 43**

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs ran as fast as he could toward the Smithsonian Metro station. He decided that he must be getting old when Dr. Jeff Cunningham passed him as easily as if he were standing still.

He was about halfway between the tent and the Metro station when he saw a man run up from the escalator, what appeared to be an oxygen tank held tightly against his chest, a blood spatter clearly visible on his khakis. "Stop!" Gibbs shouted. "Federal agent!"

Needless to say, the man didn't stop.

Gibbs would have expected Dr. Cunningham to continue on to the Metro to assess the WMATA patrolman who was stabbed, but when Gibbs turned to follow the man with the tank, Cunningham turned as well. Gibbs wanted to tell him to turn around, but after his initial shout, he wasn't sure he had the breath to do that and just keep running.

He could do without this aging business.

The man he assumed to be Naxar Gallat Egal barely avoided a group of tourists as he crossed 14th St, and Cunningham barely avoided the same group, giving Gibbs a second or two gain on both, but Egal was still too far away to tackle and the Mall was too crowded to try to shoot him. At this point, the best case scenario would be that Cunningham would be able to catch up with Egal and take him down.

And then, without warning, Egal stopped and repositioned the tank in his arms, his hand going for the valve on the top. For a second, Cunningham kept running, but for as fast as the pediatrician could run, he was a runner, and obviously didn't know what to do beyond that, grinding to a halt.

Gibbs had been a football player. He knew exactly what to do in that situation.

He didn't know if Egal had managed to actually open the valve, but he felt something wet when he tackled the terrorist to the ground. "No!" Dr. Cunningham shouted, running forward again.

"The tank's under him," Gibbs said, struggling to catch his breath now that he was no longer moving.

"Is it open?"

"Pretty sure."

"You get any on you?"

"Pretty sure," Gibbs repeated. Dr. Cunningham swore and fumbled for something in his pocket, tossing it down at Gibbs.

"Decon. Now," he said simply. "I'll call for the ambulance."

"If I move, he'll get up."

Dr. Cunningham swore again; it must have been something he picked up from his wife. "This is Dr. Cunningham, bring the dirty ambulance to 15th and Independence," he ordered crisply into his phone before discarding it. "I got him," he said, taking over for Gibbs, his knee to the small of Egal's back and his forearms pinning the shoulders down. It was a Marine Corps combatives move; he must have learned it from his wife. "Now decon. If you don't get it off in the first few minutes, it all soaks in and you're screwed."

Gibbs wiped down his arms and hands as best he could with the small decon kit Dr. Cunningham had had in his pocket as he waited for the ambulance to come from George Washington to take them to the decontamination tent Cunningham had helped set up in front of the hospital. Before they could get into it, though, one of the FBI's EOD techs had to turn off the tank they were holding under Egal, which required him to get into a full chemical suit. "Now can someone call Kim and tell her we're finally done with this?" Cunningham asked as they loaded the three men into the ambulance.

Gibbs couldn't agree with the sentiment more.

* * *

Kim Cunningham wasn't sure if she was going to kill Gibbs or her husband first, but both would be paying for what they had done. For the moment, she was going to look past the fact that one or the combination of both of them had probably saved a large group of civilians from a chemical weapon attack and just focus on the fact that both idiots had put themselves into a lot of danger.

Unfortunately, before she could go to the hospital and give them both a piece of her mind, they had to wrap things up at the mobile command center, which for her meant assigning agents and investigators to write final reports—and wishing she could delegate hers away—and turning over the tent to the post-incident commander, a wiry and nervous man from the Department of Homeland Security.

"McGee," she said once she was done with her outbriefing, a full two hours after Egal had stabbed a WMATA cop in the Smithsonian Metro station and set forward the beginning of the end of the case, "let's go to GW and brief the boss."

"Uh, actually, they moved everyone to Bethesda," he replied, looking up from his phone.

"Everyone?" she echoed with a frown.

"I mean, everyone exposed to the mustards," he said quickly. "Officer Fong is still at GW."

"Officer Fong?" she asked, her confusion growing.

"The WMATA cop who was stabbed?" McGee asked.

"Ah, right," she muttered. She needed sleep; she couldn't keep track of details anymore. "Okay, then," she said, her mind getting back on track. "Let's go to Bethesda and brief the boss. And see if we can get anything from Egal. And then scold my husband for running toward the bad guy."

"I thought that was a heroic quality?"

"He's a pediatrician, McGee. His only heroic quality should be entering an exam room with a puking kid in it."

The traffic around the Mall was even worse than usual, and although McGee didn't like using his law enforcement officer status to get special treatment, he was willing to make an exception in this case and flipped on the Charger's lights and siren, getting them up to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in just about record time. "I'm going to leave you to it," he said as he pulled into the circle in front of the hospital, not even bothering to put the car in park.

"You're not coming in?" Kim asked, confused.

"Not this time," he said. "I'll talk to Gibbs tomorrow. There's something else I need to do tonight."

He left Kim to her confusion and got on East-West Highway headed toward Silver Spring, stopping only for traffic lights until he got to his apartment. He had practically begged Harley not to go down to the Mall to watch the fireworks, getting a promise in return that she would watch any pyrotechnics from the roof of his building. She said it was a better plan than dealing with the crowds in the Mall, but he couldn't help but feel like he had let her down in keeping from celebrating Independence Day in the middle of the nation's capital.

Harley was right where she said she would be, leaning back in a lawn chair on the roof, a glass of what he could only assume to be sweet tea—she was originally from Georgia, after all—in her hand. "Hi," she said, brightening when she turned to see who had come onto the roof. "I didn't think I would get to see you tonight. Did you finish the case?"

He nodded but didn't elaborate, walking forward until he got to her, and then kissing her with all that he had. "I'm sorry," he said when they separated. "You only had a few days here and I spent them all at work."

"It's okay," she said, a touch of concern in her eyes. "Your work is important."

"You're important," he countered. "You're much more important than my job. I want you to know that."

"Tim—"

"I'm going with you," he interrupted before she could say anything else. "To Yuma or wherever else you go. I'm going with you."

* * *

Once Kim finally got someone to tell her where she could find her husband—Building 9, Deck 3, Center, room 7—she didn't waste any time in heading that direction.

"Can I help you?" an ensign in a khaki uniform asked as she exited the stairs on the third floor. Cunningham held up her shield as a response, not even breaking stride until she got to Jeff's door. She threw it open, her eyes focused on the bed and now-surprised blond lieutenant commander who occupied it.

"Thank God you're alright," she said, finally feeling the anxiety she had been feeling since he ran out of the tent leach from her body. She rushed to him, giving him a hard kiss.

And then she pulled away, keeping her hands on his cheeks as she stared him in the eye from only inches away. "And I swear to God, if you do that again, I'll kill you myself."

"It's good to see you, too, babe," he said with a smile. He brought his hands up to her forearms, allowing her to see the bandages on his arms for the first time. "It's okay," he said quickly when he saw where her eyes went. "I was fully decontaminated at GW. And believe me, they were thorough."

"How bad is it?" Kim asked. He was bandaged from elbow to wrist on both arms, not allowing her to see anything.

"I'll have some scars," he replied, "but I'm fine," he said emphatically. "No lung damage, nothing to the eyes. Just some scars on my arms."

"And Gibbs?" she asked.

"He's in the step-down unit." She must have looked as confused about that phrase as she felt, because he explained, "Halfway between ICU and where I am. He got a bit more of the mustard on him, but he'll be fine. They just want to keep a closer eye on him, and his bone marrow will probably take a hit in a couple of weeks, but he'll make a full recovery."

"And Egal?"

His reassuring smile disappeared completely. "He won't," Jeff said bluntly. "He was under an open tank of the stuff for about twenty minutes and breathed in quite a bit. He's in pretty bad shape. He's intubated, not that it's going to do much. It's supportive care only, nothing to prolong his suffering. He won't live through the night. His lungs will fail before then."

"Can we talk to him?"

"You can talk, but he can't respond," Jeff said. "He's got a tube done this throat."

"Writing?"

"He's pretty sedated, and his hands are giant blisters. I'm sorry, Kim. I know you wanted to question this guy, but it's just not going to happen."

She sighed and leaned her head down, resting her forehead on his. "At least he didn't get any civilians. And he didn't do any lasting damage to anyone but himself," she finally said.

"Exactly," he agreed. "Your hard work allowed us to catch the guy."

"About this 'us'…" she said. "Stop chasing after terrorists! That's my job."

"You know I couldn't have let you go running."

"I know," she said with a small nod. She made a face. "I'm not used to being weak."

"You're not weak," he said emphatically. "You're growing a miniature human. There's a difference." He pushed back the strands of hair that had made their way out of her braid. "I didn't want to distract you while you were working, but my detailer—"

His sentence was interrupted by a knocking on his door, followed by it opening before either could respond. "Oh, hey, Kim," Colleen O'Shaughnessy greeted as she entered, a baby carrier in hand. "I wasn't sure you'd be here yet."

"Shouldn't you be upstairs with that thing?" Kim asked, nodding a greeting to Jon Simple as he followed his wife into the room, his service dog following obediently on a leash.

"We were just discharged," she replied. "Do you want to meet James?"

Kim positioned herself fully on Jeff's before Colleen handed over the newborn, who was already sporting a tiny Ohio State beanie. "You would get along great with my colleague's baby," she said to the sleeping infant. "I'm sure his father will be raising him to be a Buckeye fan, too." In response to the name of the mascot of his mother's alma mater, James William Simple opened his eyes. "Oh, hey, there," Kim cooed. "I guess you're going to be keeping those pretty blue eyes, with your blue-eyed parents, aren't you?"

"He better be," Simple joked. Colleen rolled her eyes. "But don't all babies have blue eyes?"

"Kevan's kids did, but that went away," Kim replied. "Kanten and Karsten only had dark-eyed babies."

"That's normal with Asians," Cunningham chimed in.

"I wonder what color eyes ours will have," Kim mused.

"Jeff is pretty pale," Colleen commented.

"You're a fine one to talk," he shot back. "But I don't know," he said to his wife. "I guess we'll find out in about six months, won't we?"

"As long as you stop chasing after terrorists and keep yourself alive that long," Kim said.

"Only if you promise me the same thing."

"I think we have a deal."


	44. Chapter 44

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 44-Epilogue**

_A/N: Yes, this is an epilogue. There will be one more chapter, and then it's the end of another story. And, actually, the series. There is a reason for it, which I'll get into on Thursday, when I post the last chapter._

* * *

October 28, 2012

Special Agent Tim McGee looked up from his computer screen at the sound of the elevator opening and frowned as Lieutenant Commander Jeff Cunningham stepped out in his dress blue uniform, his cover tucked under his arm. "Dr. Cunningham?" he asked. "What're you doing here?"

"I was hoping to find my wife, actually," the pediatrician replied with a smile. "I thought she'd be hiding out here, but I guess not."

"Kim's here?" McGee asked, his confusion deepening.

"For the last week," Dr. Cunningham said slowly, his smile fading. "At least, that's what she told me when she left San Diego last week and our friends' place this morning. Something about a conference about Libya?"

McGee wasn't surprised that Kim Cunningham would be involved with a conference about the attacks on the American Embassy in Libya the month before, but he was still taken aback about the idea that she had been in the area—maybe even the building—for a week without saying anything to anybody.

"Secure conference room downstairs," Gibbs said as he walked into the building. McGee had no idea if he had heard the exchange or just walked in to see Dr. Cunningham and assumed he was looking for his wife. Either way, McGee wondered if he would ever have those observation skills. Since he would be running his own team in eight months, he figured he would find out soon.

Director Vance had been surprisingly unsurprised by McGee's request for a reassignment to Yuma, unsurprised enough to make McGee wonder if he had somehow known Harley's detailer's plans for her career. In addition to the MCRT that was recently moved over to the Marine Corps West subordinate office on that base, he was also tossing around the idea of opening a new Office of Special Projects, one that was focused on the Mexican drug trade and border security. If the OSP did start, McGee would be taking the lead; if not, he would have the MCRT when Agent O'Sullivan aged out in June.

Junior field agent to having his own team in less than two years. It would have been intimidating if it weren't for the fact that he had been junior field agent for so long.

"Secure conference room," Dr. Cunningham echoed Gibbs' words as he glanced down at his watch. "I don't suppose there's much chance of me being allowed in."

"Nope," Gibbs replied.

"Or that she has her phone on her."

"Nope," Gibbs said again.

"I didn't even realize there was a conference going on," McGee stated.

"Doesn't concern us," Gibbs replied simply.

"And why are you in your uniform?" McGee asked Dr. Cunningham. At just that moment, the elevator doors opened again, revealing Major (Promotable) Sonja Gracy, also in her dress uniform.

"Does anyone know where Jimmy is?" she asked as she walked toward the three men. "Hey, Jeff. How are the arms?"

Dr. Cunningham grinned and pushed up the sleeves of his uniform, turning his arms so his palms were up, revealing the darker amorphous shapes on the otherwise pale skin of his forearms. "Chuck said that this is probably as good as it's going to get," he informed the pathologist. "I'm thinking of getting tattoos to cover it up. What do you think?"

"Blond hair, pretty blue eyes, and sleeve tattoos? Everything I've always wanted in a husband." Kim Cunningham's dry words got an even wider grin from her husband. "No Jimmy?" she asked.

"Why is everyone asking about Jimmy?" McGee asked, feeling very out of the loop as to what was going on and very frustrated by that fact. Judging by the curious looks from Gibbs, Dr. Gracy, and Wilson, he was figuring it was something he should have been aware of.

"He's being commissioned today," Dr. Cunningham explained. "I was in town for MCM yesterday, so he asked if I would do the oath. Had I known a hurricane was about to roll in, I might have declined."

"No, you wouldn't," Kim countered with a roll of her eyes. "You wanted to run MCM."

"How'd you do?" Dr. Gracy asked.

"He barely beat a man without legs," Kim answered for him.

"Hey, Simple is a professional athlete," her husband replied defensively. "It was far from my best," he said to Gracy. "But it was my first marathon since my leg was shattered last year, so I didn't really expect much."

"That's about sixteen miles further than I've ever run, so I'm no one to judge," Gracy replied. "Congratulations. Kim, I take it you didn't join him?"

"Yeah…" Kim said slowly. "My center of balance has been a little off, seeing as I'm currently as wide as I am tall. I can't believe I still have two months left to go. How can she possibly get any bigger?" With how small Kim was, her pregnant belly stuck out like a bowling ball, but the rest of her body was still slender. And still very short, which did make it look like there wasn't much larger her belly could get before she would fall forward.

"Well, you look great," Dr. Gracy commented.

"Thank you," Kim replied.

"I tell you that every day," Dr. Cunningham pointed out.

"Yes, but you have to," she said sweetly. She gave her husband a smile before turning to McGee. "So. Yuma. What's the game plan?"

"Harley graduates in a couple of weeks, and then we're going down to Atlanta to spend Thanksgiving with her family before she reports to Yuma. Then we're doing one last Christmas here before I start down there in January," McGee replied. "I'll be the senior field agent for a few months before taking over." He didn't mention the possibility of the OSP position to her, because they were surrounded by people who weren't privy to NCIS's classified teams, but if it ended up happening, he was pretty sure she would find out about it before he did.

"Good deal," Kim said with a nod. "The junior field agent is my former probie. She's great, very motivated, doesn't miss very much. I told her you were heading out there and she's looking forward to working with you."

"Good," McGee replied. Kim had pretty high expectations for the people she worked with, so if she gave the junior field agent a nod of approval, McGee was sure she'd actually be good at the job. "What about you guys? Do you know where you're going next?" He thought he remembered Kim saying something about Jeff being done with fellowship in June, but he wasn't sure.

"Cairo," Jeff said. "NAMRU-3—Navy Medical Research Unit. I'm going to be the director of parasitology and the XO of the command." He looked down at his wife and smiled. "When my detailer told me the job was going to be coming up next year, I told him that Kim would probably leave me if I didn't jump at the chance."

"It's true," Kim agreed with a nod. "DiNozzo's going to give me the Cairo office. Should be fun."

"Isn't that a pretty small post?" The subordinate offices tended to go to people a lot more junior or a lot closer to checking out than she was; it seemed like a pretty big demotion to go from being the top stateside agent in anti-terrorism to the only agent in an office.

"Not when I'm done with it," she replied with a mischievous glint in her eye. "DiNozzo and I are already talking about how to grow the mission coming out of that office. With all that's been going on in Northern Africa—after all, just look at Libya—it shouldn't be too hard to find more for me to do." She probably had a good point there. "We're actually going to be here for a few months, starting in March," she continued. "Jeff has a three-month tropical medicine course at USUHS. Too bad you won't be around to hang out."

"We're going to have a three-month-old in March," Jeff reminded her. "Nobody's going to want to hang out with us."

"True," Kim agreed.

Jimmy Palmer appeared a minute later in the uniform white shirt and navy blue pants, his black tie eschew. "Let me help you with that," Kim volunteered, straightening the knot and securing it. "You'll fit right in in the medical corps," she joked. "Nobody knows how to wear a uniform right."

"Thanks," Jimmy replied, his face pink.

"I remember the day I took my commission into the Royal Army Medical Corps," Ducky stated. "I was quite younger than you are, Mr. Palmer—"

"He's only getting older, Duck," Gibbs interrupted. "Let's let him get this done."

"Ah, yes. It is your day, Mr. Palmer."

"Thanks, Dr. Mallard," Jimmy replied, looking relieved. He turned to Jeff Cunningham. "Are we ready?"

"That's up to you," Dr. Cunningham replied. "Where do you want to do this?"

"Oh," Jimmy said, looking around where they were standing, in the middle of the bullpen. Everyone's eyes went to the large window, where they saw leaves flying and branches whipping in the air with the gusts of wind.

"How about by the window?" Abby suggested. It was as good of a place as any, and Jimmy shrugged his assent, the group moving the few feet necessary.

Jeff Cunningham cleared his throat as he raised his right hand. "Raise your right hand," he ordered Jimmy, who did so obediently. "Repeat after me. I, state your name."

"I, Jimmy—uh, James—Palmer," Palmer repeated.

"Do solemnly swear that I will defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic," Cunningham continued.

"Do solemnly swear that I will defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic," Palmer echoed.

"That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same."

"That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same."

"That I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion."

"That I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion."

"And that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter."

"And that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter."

"So help me God."

"So help me God."

"Congratulations, Ensign Palmer," Dr. Cunningham said with a grin. "Welcome to the United States Navy Medical Corps."

Abby and Ducky pinned on Jimmy's shoulder boards, and then they helped him into his dress blue jacket, already with the single stripe of an ensign at his wrists and the leaf and acorn of the medical corps above that. Gracy gave him a hug and Director Vance shook his hand and offered his congratulations. Abby pulled out a cake she had been hiding in McGee's desk without his knowledge—seriously, how did she always manage to do that?—and they stood around eating cake, the doctors telling funny stories of their experiences in medical school and deployments, everyone telling jokes and laughing and just having a good time.

They were a family, and McGee still couldn't fully process the idea that he would soon be leaving this family. He didn't know how things would go in Yuma, but he couldn't imagine that he would ever have a relationship with those he worked with the way he currently did.

* * *

Gibbs snuck away from the party when Ducky started in on a story he had already heard about a medical school classmate and headed up the stairs, observing the scene from the catwalk.

This would probably be the last time everyone would be gathered together like this. And they weren't even all there; Tony and Ziva were still in Bahrain, chasing down terrorists and adjusting to life with an almost-four-month-old who DiNozzo claimed was actually a miniature terrorist in disguise. McGee was leaving for Yuma right after Christmas. Abby was starting to go to recruiting dinners at nice restaurants again, and he was pretty sure she was actually listening to the job offers this time. Jimmy would be going back to medical school in July, and Ducky has already said that he wasn't going to train a new autopsy assistant. He was working with the Armed Forces Medical Examiner—Gracy's commanding officer—about transitioning the NCIS case load into the AFME system. He was still trying to decide if he wanted to retire or just work part-time.

All good things had to come to an end eventually. If there was one thing life had taught him, it was that.

His eyes fell on Gracy as she laughed at one of Dr. Cunningham's stories, and he realized that maybe not everything came to an end.

The initial tension between them after she got word that she was moving to Germany went away after the Fourth of July, but they still didn't talk about it much. Shortly after the attacks on the embassy in Libya, she said she would like it if he moved to Germany with them, but she didn't actually ask him to go, and they didn't talk about it after that.

It was time to talk about it again. Or do something about it.

He ignored the protests of Vance's assistant at let himself into the director's office. "The job in Germany," he began.

In response, Vance unlocked a desk drawer and pulled out a folder. "Forms are already filled out," he said. "Just needs your signature."


	45. Chapter 45

**Wanting for Independence: Chapter 45-Final Epilogue**

_A/N: Yes, this is the final epilogue... for the entire series. And yes, that's harder for me to write than you to read. More below._

* * *

December 25, 2020

If somebody had told Leroy Jethro Gibbs thirty years ago that he would be starting Christmas morning by checking Army uniforms for items left in pockets before tossing them in the laundry, he probably would have had him admitted for psychiatric reasons. Yet that was exactly how his Christmas began, and he didn't mind at all.

He left the empty laundry basket on top of the dryer before climbing the stairs out of the basement into the previously-quiet kitchen, where he was now met with the sounds of two women laughing and speaking in German, which after almost seven years of living in Germany, he was actually able to follow. "Good morning," he greeted, getting a distracted wave from his wife as she removed a plate of cookies from the oven, and bright grin from his stepdaughter. "And happy birthday," he said to Maddie, kissing her on the cheek.

"Thanks, Gibbs," she said brightly. "Are you hiding a birthday present behind your back?" she asked teasingly, leaning over to try to see.

"Nope. Just things in pockets of uniforms."

Maddie waved dismissively. "Then it must be Mom's," she declared. "I always check my pockets before putting my uniforms in the hamper."

Gibbs pulled out a USMA student card and flipped it onto the kitchen counter in front of the first-year cadet. "Wasn't aware they issued colonels student ID cards to West Point." Maddie blushed bright red and murmured an apology to her mother's laughter. "Your brother up yet?"

Maddie frowned. "I assumed he was down in the basement with you, working on the boat." Both Gibbs and Sonja shook their heads.

"He went into school to hit the weight room," Sonja informed them. She glanced at her watch. "He should be back soon."

"On Christmas?" Maddie asked with a frown. "The basketball coach is _that _serious?"

"It wasn't the coach. Not a full practice," Sonja said.

"Ah," Maddie said with a smirk. "So it's a girl. I'm guessing Jaelynn?"

"We're not supposed to ask that," Sonja informed her daughter. "But I don't think you'd lose much money on that bet."

"Ah, teenage love," Maddie joked as she popped a cookie in her mouth.

"Still one more year of being a teenager," Gibbs reminded her. She shrugged a shoulder and reached for another cookie.

"Careful," Sonja joked, nodding toward the cookie. "Don't want to return to West Point over the weight standards."

"I _just_ got back from swimming for two hours," the cadet protested tossing her still-damp long black hair over her shoulder for emphasis. "Besides, I lost so much weight during Beast that I'm _under_ the weight standards for my height. Coach said he wants me packing me on the pounds during break, so with that and swimming every day…" She shrugged. "It all means I get to eat cookies whenever I want. And that older cadets can't withhold food from me as punishment. Makes me the most hated plebe in the company."

"I can imagine," Gibbs agreed.

"Do you want coffee?" Maddie asked him, nodding toward the coffee maker. Gibbs shook his head.

"Have a cup downstairs."

"You're not double-fisting coffee?" Maddie asked in mock astonishment. "Gibbs, are you feeling okay? Mom, I think we need to take him into the ER."

"Maybe later," Sonja replied, playing along. "We have too much to do to get ready for everyone coming over. If he's hasn't drained that pot and the next two by the time everyone leaves tonight, we'll take him in." Gibbs just rolled his eyes.

The door opened, followed by the sounds of heavy footsteps and heavy swearing coming in a sixteen-year-old boy's voice. "The snow out there is _insane_," Nate Gracy complained as he walked into view, his six foot five frame taking up the entire entryway. "Hey, Gibbs. Jaelynn's Jeep got a flat a couple of blocks ago. Can you help us fix it?"

"Tell Jaelynn to get inside and we'll take care of it," Gibbs replied, already stuffing his feet into his boots. Nate nodded and went back the way he came to pass along the message.

A minute later, Nate's presence was replaced by that of Jaelynn O'Leary, large snowflakes stuck to damp red curls spilling out from under her stocking cap. "Maddie!" the sixteen-year-old exclaimed. "I didn't know you were back from West Point!"

"Yeah, that would suck if they wouldn't release me for Christmas," Maddie replied, giving the shorter girl—at six foot one, there weren't too many who weren't shorter—a quick embrace. "How's swimming been?"

The younger girl shrugged. "Not too bad. Oh! I read that article about you in _Swimmer's World_. 'Ten Freshmen You Didn't See Coming', right?"

"That's right," Maddie said proudly, producing the magazine in question. "Number two. Mom and I were just going over it. 'Madeline Gracy, 18, daughter of Texas A&M great Sonja (Herzlich) Gracy ('97), is out to prove that sailors aren't the only ones who know how to swim. The United States Military Academy freshman, straight out of high school in Germany, slipped under the radar of many of the great college teams, but coach Mike Freeman knew exactly what he was doing when he signed her up for his team.'"

"Yes, we know," Sonja said, rolling her eyes as she took the magazine from her daughter. "You're famous now."

"I'll have to remember to bring my copy when we come by tomorrow, to get your autograph," Jaelynn remarked, only half joking. Maddie grinned; Sonja rolled her eyes again.

After supplying the sixteen-year-old with a travel mug of coffee, the men reemerged, both dusted in snow but announcing that they had finished replacing the tire with the spare, and Jaelynn was on her way. "No kiss goodbye?" Maddie teased her brother, two flipped her off with both hands. "Such attitude," Maddie said in mock surprise. "Almost like you were raised by a former Marine. Wonder what that snooty private school thinks about that?"

"Nothing they don't know," Gibbs replied, heading back down to the basement to retrieve his coffee and maybe do some work on the boat before the guests began to arrive.

"And I wonder what Mom would think when she finds out which college coach has been trying to recruit you?" Maddie continued in a stage whisper, earning a glare from her brother and a look of confusion from her mother. "I'm going to go downstairs to help Gibbs," she announced in a sing-song voice.

"Women," Nate muttered, heading upstairs to change.

Fortunately, the snow let up enough to allow the plows to catch up, making the roads navigable enough for the guests to begin arriving a few minutes after noon. Nobody was terribly surprised that Tony, Ziva, and Danny were the first through the door; they all knew how Ziva drove. "Merry Christmas!" DiNozzo said loudly, a pile of presents in his arms. "And happy birthday to Maddie," he added, seeing the tall cadet in the kitchen. "Danny has your birthday present."

"Here," the eight-year-old replied, handing over the one present he carried.

"Thank you, Danny," Maddie replied. "Should I open it now, or wait until everyone gets here?"

"I don't know," Danny muttered. Ziva chuckled.

"Whatever you would like," she answered. The advisor to the Department of Homeland Security handed her coat off to Gibbs. "We also brought wine."

"Ooh! I'll take that, too!" Maddie exclaimed.

"I think West Point would probably have something to say about that," DiNozzo observed.

"I just won't drink it around any colonels. I mean, hello, Mother." They all laughed at Dr. Gracy's look of faux-exasperation.

"Hey, Danny," Nate greeted from the stairway, where the sounds of people arriving drew him from his bedroom. "Do you want to see the boat in the basement?"

"Okay," the young DiNozzo replied, following the tall teenager's lead away from the others.

"Yeah, that's fine," DiNozzo said sarcastically at his son's retreating back. "You don't need to ask your parents for permission."

"There is no question that he is your son, Tony," Ziva replied. Her husband gave a good-natured grumble.

"How's the team?" Gibbs asked as he handed his former agent and former Mossad liaison drinks.

"Oh, you know," DiNozzo said with a shrug.

"They work too hard, Tony drinks too much coffee, and they have the highest clearance record in the agency. It is not unlike when you held the position, Gibbs," Ziva replied for him. "How is retirement?"

"Best decision I ever made. Again."

"He's driving everyone nuts," Gracy commented from the kitchen. "He needs a hobby that gets him out of the basement." Before Gibbs could counter that, the doorbell rang again, this time admitting Tim McGee and his family, and just pulling up to park, Abby Sciuto, also with family in tow.

"It's the McFamily!" DiNozzo exclaimed. Both Tim and Harley, both with small children in arms, rolled their eyes.

"That's what you say every time you see us, Tony," McGee said with a sigh.

"That's because you made it too easy, marrying someone with a name like McNamee."

"You would make fun no matter who I married," McGee replied, setting his daughter down and working on removing her coat.

"Well, yeah," DiNozzo replied. "I'm mostly still amazed that you found someone to marry you."

"Thanks, Tony," Harley McNamee said.

"Anytime."

Harley chuckled as she turned to her husband. "We still have the presents in the car. Do you mind going back and getting them?"

"Sure," he agreed, turning and walking back the way he came.

"Still obedient, I see," DiNozzo observed. Harley looked up at him and smiled and nodded.

"It's better that way. For everyone involved." They watched as McGee gave Abby a hug as their paths intersected, and shaking her husband's hand, gestured them up to the house, where the routine of greetings and passing off presents for children and wishes for a happy birthday to Maddie repeated.

"I know it was a last minute invite, but does anyone know if the Cunninghams are coming?" Sonja Gracy asked when everyone was in the house, directing the comment mostly at DiNozzo, since he worked in the same building as the agent in question. He was the one to respond.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "They always go to her family's place in Washington for Christmas, but she says thanks for the invite."

"They've got three kids now, right?" Abby asked. "No, Ezzie, those presents aren't for you," she scolded her daughter.

"Yeah," DiNozzo answered. "Syd just turned eight, Jack's five, and Pup—Bethany—is two. Real handfuls, all three of them. Sydney and Danny are in the same class at school and play in the same soccer league in fall and spring. They do _not_ get along."

"They probably fight about whose mom could beat the other in a fight," McGee commented. "Hey, I don't know if I heard this right, but they're turning anti-terrorism into a deputy director position?"

"That's right," DiNozzo replied as he got up to fill a plate with appetizers.

"Kim's up for that? Seems like a big job for a really small person." It was a joke; everyone in the room who had worked with the head of NCIS' anti-terrorism division knew that her diminutive size had nothing to do with how much she accomplished in one day.

"She is, but it will probably not be her job," Ziva said. "She is up for Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense (Middle East)."

"Wow," McGee replied, blinking in surprise. "That's an SES position."

"She still needs to make it through confirmation hearings, which she's worried about," DiNozzo chimed in. "Apparently, Jeff's former fiancée is a senator on the committee."

"The one who dumped him while he was deployed with Kim?"

"That would be the one."

"Ouch. Tough break for Kim."

"No kidding," DiNozzo agreed. "Hell hath no fury…" He didn't complete the sentence, getting a sideways glance from his wife. "So, Harley, how's the test piloting?"

"Slow for at least another month." She nodded at the infant in her arms. "No flying until a year post-partum. And I thought the Corps had some strange medical restrictions; it's got nothing on the private sector. This could be good, though, because my boss is thinking about putting me on the commercial space craft project, which is scheduled to start in about ten weeks."

"So you'll get your dream of being an astronaut after all?" DiNozzo asked. She chuckled and nodded slightly.

"It's a little bit different, but close enough." Following the end of her obligated active duty service time in the Marine Corps, she decided to leave for the private sector, where the planes were newer and the pay much, much better. With the move from Arizona to California, and the increase in pay Harley was getting, McGee decided to leave NCIS and all other regular work, now writing full-time and serving as a consultant for any nearby law enforcement department who wanted it. It was enough to keep his muse happy, which was all he needed. The time he got to spend being a full-time stay at home dad with the two kids was the other perk.

Abby had left NCIS shortly after Gibbs left the Navy Yard, and didn't look back. Promises of designing her own lab and interesting work—validating breakthroughs in forensics so they could be used in court, and making a few breakthroughs of her own—lured her to Seattle, and the ER physician husband and two girls they adopted from Cambodia kept her there. There weren't many who had her pegged as the wife-and-mother type—especially with a husband as mainstream as a physician, although everyone agreed that Evan wasn't exactly mainstream—but now seeing it on her, it fit.

Jimmy Palmer went back to medical school on the Navy scholarship, with every intention of following Ducky's footsteps and becoming a medical examiner, but to everyone's surprise, he fell in love with his pediatrics rotation on his first day back as a medical student, and that was the end. He was currently serving as a pediatrician in Okinawa, and after frequent emails back and forth with Dr. Jeff Cunningham, would be returning to DC to do his pediatric infectious disease fellowship at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center the following July.

Everyone's predictions of Ducky performing autopsies until he died turned out to be unfortunately fairly accurate; the elderly medical examiner barely enjoyed seven months of retirement and writing his book before his housekeeper found him in bed one morning, having died in his sleep that night. He did finish the book, however, which was a hit among everyone who had worked with him. Reading the stories in written form turned out to be much more tolerable than trying to get him to make a point while working on a case.

Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David and their son were the first to return to the DC area five years before, Tony having extended his time as the SAC in Bahrain an extra year beyond the required three to accommodate Ziva's career. Her first mission after she was medically cleared from the cardiologist to return to full field duty a year after Danny was born was also her last; it just didn't have the same appeal to her anymore, not when she had a son she had to worry about being able to return home to. She remained in her position as the case officer for the office until a replacement could be found, then decided to take full advantage of her marriage to a US citizen to become a dual citizen, and left Mossad to get a job with Homeland Security, a position she kept even after the move back to DC. Tony accepted the position as the head of the MCRT, and while they had no idea yet if he would pull a Gibbs and stay there until he was mandated to leave field work at fifty-five, he was enjoying it.

And as for Gibbs, he and Gracy decided that they might as well make things official, and signed all the paperwork to get married before they headed off to Germany, he to take over running the NCIS presence there—without going into the field, something the director had been very emphatic about—and she to take over as the Armed Forces Medical Examiner for Europe, and to everybody's surprise—including their own—the marriage stuck. Maybe it was because they were both old enough and mature enough, maybe it was because they both knew what kind of loss the other had, maybe it was because neither tried to make the other forget about a dead spouse, but the marriage worked. They had moved back in August—earlier for Maddie, who started as a plebe at West Point in July—and Gibbs decided that enough was enough, and retired for real. To go along with her promotion to full colonel the year before, Sonja ascended to the top position within the Armed Forces Medical Examiner System. It was a good arrangement: she continued to leave for work every day, he continued to work on his boat, and Nate continued to be a high school junior. Both Gibbs and Gracy were already counting the days until he would be leaving for college.

After dinner and before dessert, Maddie was given her pile of birthday presents. "So, Maddie," DiNozzo began, heckling her while she opened her presents. "Any West Point boyfriends yet?"

"I'm a plebe," she reminded him. "I'm not allowed to date. Besides, where would I find the time? I'm always either in the pool, in the classroom, or doing homework. I barely have time to sleep." Gibbs rolled his eyes but didn't say anything; he happened to know that her high school boyfriend from Germany was a year ahead of her and had a lot to do with why she chose to go there instead of a big-name swimming school, just like he knew that he had been 'helping her get adjusted to West Point life'.

When Maddie was done opening presents—a process that involved many questions from the little kids about why she got to open presents and they couldn't—they distributed desserts and alcoholic beverages—it didn't escape anyone's notice that Maddie had a glass of wine and Nate a bottle of beer—before the presents for the kids went out. "Uh, thanks, Tony," Nate said, holding up his new The Ohio State University Basketball hoodie, "but I'm not going to OSU."

"They've had a really strong basketball program the last few years," DiNozzo informed him.

"Yeah, I know, but it's in _Ohio_."

"Besides," Maddie said innocently, "he may or may not be talking to the men's basketball coach at Navy."

"Ouch," DiNozzo said with a wince. He looked at both female Gracys. "You two are letting him get away with that?"

"This is the first I've heard of it," Sonja said defensively. She shook her head sadly as she looked at her son. "And I thought I did a good job raising him. To put in all that effort and end up with a Marine…" Her voice trailed off as Gibbs' eyebrows rose.

"And?" the former Marine prompted.

"We're just _talking_," Nate said insistently. "I'm not ready to make any decisions. And their basketball team really, really sucks."

"He still doesn't know where Jaelynn is going," Maddie added.

"I did not know you had a girlfriend, Nate," Ziva commented.

"I don't!" he insisted. Sonja nodded the contradictory response behind his back.

"Just remember to be careful," DiNozzo said, just as Anna McGee smacked her head against the table and started screaming. "Or one of those happens."

"This conversation is seriously not happening to me," Nate muttered, his face turning red.

"Are you having an out-of-body experience?" Abby asked, her eyes wide. "What is it like? Are you floating above us, watching everything happen? I've always wanted that to happen to me, and I know more than a few drugs that can help the process along, but that just seems to cheapen the experience, you know?"

"I have no idea what you just said," Nate said, shaking his head.

"You need to learn to speak Abby," Abby's husband explained. "Which mostly means you need to understand words coming at you very, very quickly."

The jokes continued, as did the stories, and slowly, children started to fall asleep and parents started to bundle them up to head back to homes and grandparents' houses and hotel rooms, and before too long, Tony, Ziva, and Danny were the only guests left, Danny half-asleep on his father's back as they got ready to head out the door. "Any time you need help with a case, you know how to find me," Gibbs offered his former senior field agent.

"Phones work both ways, you know," Ziva said in response. "I am glad you are back in DC, but we still do not see you often."

"Tell your husband to call me in on a case," Gibbs countered. Ziva rolled her eyes and muttered in Hebrew.

"Play nice," Tony admonished his wife. "Thanks for dinner, guys. And I still have your number on speed dial, Boss."

"Not your boss anymore, DiNozzo." The exchange was so familiar after almost a decade of not working together that it was practically automatic, but neither made any effort to change the words. Gibbs extended his hand, which DiNozzo took in an awkward handshake that was the best he could do with a tall eight-year-old on his back, and then they, too, were gone into the night.

Gibbs helped Gracy and the kids clean up, and then headed down into his basement. He poured some bourbon into a mug and stopped to stare at the one thing he had hanging on his wall: a drawing of the team from what seemed like a lifetime ago. They had lost some and had gained some more; they had all grown up, gone their separate ways, and done their separate things; and their family had grown to include spouses and children, but that's what they were and what they would always be: a family. In the privacy of the basement, with only his boat and the laundry machines to witness it, he toasted to another Christmas gone by and to the promise that it wouldn't be the last.

* * *

_A/N 2: Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading and reviewing throughout this journey we went on together (and I promise, I'll try to respond to reviews over the next few days). I really loved writing this series, but all good things must come to an end._

_There have one been two TV shows I've gotten into enough to start to imagine stories for, and with how busy my life is outside of TV (shocking, I know), I don't anticipate adding many more, but you'll know if I do. So I may not be hanging out on FFN too much in the foreseeable future, but don't worry, I'm not done with writing. I have so many stories featuring Kim and Jeff just waiting to be written, so I'll probably be staying fairly active on Fictionpress, if you wanted to hop that way to follow along. _

_Again, thank you. I write because I love to write and my head is always so full of stories, but posting for you guys makes it that much more rewarding. This series probably wouldn't have made it much beyond_ Of Jews and Gentiles_ if it weren't for you._


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